Artefacts

It is with great regret that I have decided to leave my little boat. In the early hours of New Years Day, I stood at a bus stop in Hackney and counted down the minutes until I could remove my heels.  As I peered down the road for the 277, I thought about the year which had just passed and the year ahead. I will turn thirty this year, and like most women about to hit that milestone birthday, I considered the things I wanted to achieve.

Some women who are about to hit this age may decide that they want certain things. A few realise that they want to get serious about their careers or they think that maybe now is the time to have a baby. Some chicks think that maybe it’s time to put an end to casual sex and that really they should be having a more adult approach to relationships instead of just hitting the Phoenix on a Saturday night with nothing but an Oyster card, a toothbrush and a spare pair of pants.  Or if they can afford it, there are ladies who decide that it is now appropriate to stop playing the renting game and get together a deposit and actually buy somewhere.

 I have decided I want a flushing toilet. And to not feel the need to go to bed wearing a life jacket during seventy mile per hour winds.

When I first moved on to the boat, I thought that any Future Gentleman Friends would find my way of life unusual, exotic and bohemian. But the reality is that there is nothing arousing or seductive  about explaining to a man that they need to go outside to the Facilities Block to use the toilet. And before you know it your Future Gentleman Friend is a Past Gentleman Friend who is seeing a six foot Brachiosaurus with tits like Eggs Benedict and an en suite.

Anyway, once I had made the decision to leave, I realised that this meant packing up all of my belongings. Again. So out came the heavy duty bin liners and I decided that I needed to be ruthless when it came to chucking stuff away.  It was time to lose some baggage.

At the bottom of my wardrobe were several storage boxes. One was full of belts and scarves, one was full of other accessories, and two were full of Press Night cards. I sat in the middle of my futon and got on with the task of lightening my load. I filled up the bin liners with polka dot headscarves and studded belts. Along with glow in the dark headbands which no longer glowed, a pair of sequinned gloves and some handcuffs.

After half a bottle of Merlot my two boxes of unnecessary tat eventually became just half a box of things which may come back into fashion one day. And after having second thoughts and a quick rummage in a bin liner I chucked the handcuffs back in there too. 

Benedict Tits might have legs like a gazelles and an en suite wet room but I have handcuffs and an open mind.

So then I started on the two boxes of cards, trinkets and signed programmes. Before I knew it an entire hour had passed and I was sat surrounded by half the stock of Paperchase and more ‘Thank You’s’ than an acceptance speech at the Oscar’s.

At the top of the first box there were cards I had received recently. I sipped my wine and grinned at the messages. There was a tiny miniature grand piano which I had only received last week, and a whole heap of other cards full of the usual ‘Thanks for all your work!!!’, ‘Here’s to a great run!!!’

But there are some other cards which are slightly more unusual. One is simply a photo of a child’s bouncy ball which immediately triggers a strong memory. This ball became the source of great pleasure during one rehearsal process as we, the entire company, started every day with a lengthy group game of Keepy-Uppy .  And to give the director credit, this did admittedly help us all bond and get our energy up at the start of a brand new rehearsal day. The morning games of Keep-Uppy would become slightly competitive and if you dropped the ball then you would be on the receiving end of some chummy abuse. I somehow gained the nickname ‘Tranny Hands’ which is weird as my hands are unusually small and I can only assume that this was part of the joke. But putting this game into our routine did help us all work together as a group and when I look at this photo of a ball with the message on the back (‘Jess, Thanks for all the hard work done with your massive hands’) it really makes me grin.

Sadly, the play only got two star reviews and was described as ‘hollow’, ‘formulaic’ and ‘predictable’.  But who gives a crap when you’re making friends and keeping a ball off the ground for a good twenty minutes?

There were other beautiful cards which made me very happy that I had made the decision to hoard these bits of paper. For instance, I unearthed a Get Well Soon card signed by Sir Derek Jacobi when I caught mumps. He wrote a sweet message about how he hoped I felt better soon and left his sweeping signature. Sadly another actor, who is now Actually Quite Famous, had also signed the card but had written a rather rude message about my swellings and how parts of his anatomy were also swollen. Not only did I find it rather vulgar but also quite surprising. If you have the opportunity to share a card with Sir Derek Jacobi, you would think you'd find something other than your cock to write about. But that’s actors for you.

Actually, the more cards I read, the more I noticed how many included innuendo and double meanings. Like one from when I did ‘The 39 Steps’ and cued the show from a box. Throughout the run I endured many salacious comments about my ‘box’ and one card reminded me of this.

‘Thanks Jess! How many steps are there to YOUR box!!! LOL!’

Several other cards also had ‘nudge, nudge, wink, wink’ double entendre type messages inside. But others were less subtle.

‘Dear Jess!! Will miss your big tits!!’

So I continued to rummage through that first box and found many cards and little keepsakes that reminded me of shows and actors from the past year or so. But when I opened the second box and started to rifle through the cards, I began to feel a sense of confusion. My memories felt muddied and I don’t think it was just the half bottle of wine.

Well, a whole bottle of wine.  

And a small Port.

There was one which had a picture of a pot-bellied pig on the front and inside was written the words,

 ‘Jess! Remind you of someone? HA HA HA!!! Love Charlotte x’

I looked at the picture on the front and realised that it didn’t remind me of anything. I couldn’t even remember Charlotte. Who the hell was she? And why would a pot-bellied pig make me laugh? Did we have a private (and probably quite size-ist) joke about another company member?  There was no date or play title written within the card and as I toyed with it in my fingers, my eyes rested on the bin liner.

Unable to shove the pig card in with the other unloved accessories and out of date Durex packs, I decided to just keep it to one side. I was struggling to bring myself to completely discard messages which had, at one point, probably meant something.

There was one card, however, in the depths of the second box, which I did remember. It was from someone called Dave (that’s not his real name). Inside the card was the name of the show, the date of the Press Night and his full name. Along with the message;

‘Jess, Hope you have a wonderful Press Night and looking forward to getting to know you on tour.’

Sadly, myself and Dave did got to know each other on tour. He learnt that I had no time for actors with a poisonous attitude and a punctuality issue. And I learnt that he was a cunt. I considered his card for a while. Despite the fact that I had (and still) despised him and his horrific behaviour, it was still intriguing to get a glimpse of a time when we had obviously made the effort  to purchase a card and write something sweet within it.

Even as I looked at the handwriting of a man I detested, I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to throw it away having hung on to it for so long. So I laid it on top of the Mysterious Charlotte’s card and continued digging through the rest of my theatrical artefacts, silently munching on some Love Hearts I had found buried under a party invite.

The Charlotte/Dave pile started to get bigger as I uncovered more and more messages containing references I didn’t remember from names which meant absolutely nothing. Most of them were just standard Press Night messages because, let’s be honest, nobody writes what they really think in Press Night cards. Otherwise mine would say stuff like,

‘Dear Paul.

You are very good in the play but still paraphrasing lots in Scene Two. Have a wonderful Press Night and here’s to the rest of the run.

J x

P.S. You have ‘borrowed’ a million pencils off me and I want them back please. I am a Stage Manager. Not a portable branch of Rymans.’

 As the minutes passed by and my feelings of sentimentality seeped away, I decided that the most obvious thing to do was to pour these scrawling into my bin liner. Keeping this crap was not going to improve my life, help me to remember these people or get me a flushing toilet.

However, right at the bottom, my nails brushed across a glittery card with the standard ‘Thank You’ emblazoned across the front in swirly writing. I pulled it out and saw that it was from somebody called Michael. Again, the card did not contain the name of the play or the date and for the life of me I could not remember a Michael. But I read his words anyway. And for a few moments afterwards I just sat in the gloom. My legs were crossed beneath me and my hands cradled the wine glass. I stayed like that for some time. Just taking in Michael’s words and thinking that it must have been one of the first cards I had ever saved. Over ten years ago I had taken the decision to not recycle it or throw it away and had instead kept it in a box where other cards would eventually pile on top of it. Entombing it and preserving it simultaneously.

I know that we all write Press Night messages that we don’t necessarily mean, but Michael wrote something so genuine and unaffected that, even all this time later, it still made me feel that somebody had really appreciated me. To type out what Michael had written would be slightly self-indulgent and incredibly wanky. So I’ll just keep his words to myself.

I took the decision to place all of my cards back in the boxes, despite the fact they take up space I don’t have. I may not remember the well-wishers but they are all people I have worked with at some point and if they have taken the trouble to think of me, then who am I to instantly disregard them.

So no cards went into my bin liner.

Except for Dave’s.

(He really was a cunt.)

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The Slipper and the Rose

Why did you get into theatre?

This is a question I have been asked many times and, if you work in theatre, you have probably been asked it too. By people interviewing you for a job perhaps. Or by friends who Don’t Work In Theatre. Or fucking annoying taxi drivers who have picked you up after a seven hour train journey and their only sodding task is to take you to the venue but have decided that they want to know every mundane detail of your career and whether you have met anyone ‘off the telly.’

I’m actually a bit reluctant to tell people why I got into theatre and sometimes  I lie about it. I lied about it several years ago when I had a big interview at a Reasonably Successful Company. About five people were seated around a large table and one lady in the middle leant forwards to me and asked,

“So, Jessica. Why did you get into theatre?”

I knew the real answer but was embarrassed to admit it to these wise and practised professionals, sporting their Reasonably Successful Company t-shirts. So I lied and said how I had once seen a production of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ at the Reasonably Successful Company when I was at school and how enchanted I had been.

They all smiled proudly before another interviewee, a man, made eye contact with me and proposed the next question,

“Jessica, what do you think you would bring to the Reasonably Successful Company?”

I grinned cheerfully and blurted out my answer.

“A bag!”

This comical and also incredibly truthful answer was not as well received as my previous lie. It was met with slightly puzzled looks and I swear I saw one of them quickly draw a little blunt cross on a bit of paper. Later that night I went for a Chinese meal with my Gentleman Friend of that period.

“So,” he enquired, “how was the big interview with the Reasonably Successful Company?”

“Okay,” I nodded, “I was just myself.”

“Oh dear.”

I glared at him over my grilled dumplings and reached for the Merlot.

But actually, I hadn’t completely been myself. I hadn’t told them the real reason I had originally decided that I wanted to get into theatre.

It probably happened when I was a very little girl. About six or seven. Boys were still nasty, vile creatures that one wanted to keep a distance from and Merlot was still just ‘mummy’s special juice’. My parents encouraged my sisters and I to have outside hobbies and to not just sit staring at the TV or endlessly playing pacman on our little Spectrum. But they would also succumb to the simple pleasure of sometimes being able to plonk us infront of a VHS.

But even my video collection was slightly different to the kids I shared a play-do scented classroom with. While my peers were spending their rainy Sunday afternoons munching Findus crispy pancakes and watching ‘Honey I Shrunk the Kids’ or something involving the Care Bears, I was sat on the living room floor transfixed by Julie Andrews whirling around in front of some mountains in ‘The Sound of Music’. Or I would be singing all the lyrics to ‘As the World Falls Down’ whilst I watched David Bowie prance about in his painfully tight leggings during ‘Labyrinth’.

I just assumed that all my primary school chums were watching the same things and it would come as a shock to realise that they were more likely to know the theme tune to ‘Rainbow Bright’ or ‘The Gummi Bears’ than be able to sing the entire score of ‘The Music Man’.

 (I don’t think I was always in the right key but I knew all the words.)

Another favourite film of mine from a very early age was the feature length Beatles cartoon of ‘The Yellow Submarine’, despite it being made a full 14 years before I was even born. Of course when I watch it now and take in the psychedelic cartoon imagery and the fact that everyone keeps saying ‘It’s all in the mind, y’know’, I fully realise it’s completely about hallucinogenic drugs and is probably not appropriate viewing material for an eight year old. But that didn’t matter. I liked the bright colours and learning the lyrics to Beatles songs.

Although I have a theory that if you are born in Liverpool or the surrounding areas (as I was), you never learn Beatles lyrics. You’re just born already knowing them.

It’s a gift.

But one of my all time favourite films from this innocent era, was (and still is) ‘The Slipper and the Rose.’

A few years ago, previous to my disastrous interview with the Reasonably Successful Company, I realised that owning ‘The Slipper and the Rose’ on VHS was useless as I was without a video player. So I scoured the internet for it and discovered a woman on E Bay selling a DVD copy which had come free with the Daily Mail. I decided that as I would not be funding the vile publication directly, it was okay for me to purchase it.

And as I curled up under the duvet watching it, I remembered how as a little girl, these films had struck such a chord with me. Especially ‘The Slipper and the Rose.’

It is essentially the story of Cinderella but done as a rather lavish musical. It was made in 1976 and (little know fact) was produced by David Frost.

Gemma Craven plays Cinderella and is everything you would want your Cinderella to be. She has a cherub like face throughout, a luminescent beauty when she makes her grand entrance at the ball, and a cracking set of knockers.

When I grew up, I wanted to be Gemma Craven.

Tragically, when Gemma Craven grew up, something rather terrible happened to her and she ended up making the common, heart-rending mistake that many talented yet stupid actresses make.

She was in Hollyoaks.

In fact, it’s worse than that. She was actually in ‘Hollyoaks Later’ in 2008. Playing the mum of the irish bloke who was HIV positive.  Gemma is now married to a man who changed his name by deed poll from Gary Womack to ‘Lord Odin’.  And previous to being called ‘Lord Odin’ he was self-named ‘Mickey Mouse’.

They live in Blackpool.

I’ll stop talking about what happened to Gemma Craven because it genuinely breaks my heart. I like to remember her as my exquisite Cinderella, dancing about in a field holding her treasured, sparkly slipper aloft. And then being fiercely embraced by Richard Chamberlain, after he has dismounted from his massive white horse with his shirt unbuttoned down to the navel.

It’s all terribly romantic.

When I watch the film now I can see that it is not without its flaws. The design is magnificent and the costumes are opulent to say the least. But the consequence of this opulence teamed with the poor sound quality is that when all of the ladies are dancing at the ‘Bride Finding Ball’, the sound of the rustling taffeta is deafening. Plus the special effects are terrible. There is a sequence which features a mouse being transformed into a horse to pull the carriage. Basically there is a shot of a man wearing a mouse head, then the screen goes weird, then there is a shot of a horse.

But none of that matters.

When I was doing a Shakespeare piece recently,  the director told us something that a well known writer had told him. See, stage managers do listen to this stuff;

‘Always know where the hangman is hiding.’

Even in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ which appears light enough, there is always the lingering threat of Death. If Hermia does not agree to marry Demetrius, she might get killed or sent to live in exclusion for the rest of her life. And if Peter Quince and the Mechanicals put on a crap play, they may also face the hangman.

‘The Slipper and the Rose’ is no different. There is one scene which I always used to fast forward but as I watch it now, I appreciate that it is actually a phenomenal piece of script writing accompanied by some top acting. Cinderella and Prince Edward have been reunited after some nifty detective work involving the slipper (proof that a great pair of shoes can change your life) and are about to embark on a wondrous life together. But the country is under the threat of war. And the King has decided that the Prince needs to marry a proper Princess and Cinderella, radiant though she is, just does not fit the bill. So the King’s right hand man has to go and deliver the news to Cinderella and tell her that she will be exiled to somewhere that nobody can find her;

‘You see only love and happiness staring you in the face. I see only war and destruction unless a sacrifice is made.’

‘The hangman’ is the necessary element to making all of these ‘dated’ and ‘cheesy’ films so heartfelt and so timeless. ‘The Sound of Music’ isn’t just whiskers on kittens and dancing round in curtains. There is the constant and disturbing presence of the Nazis. And in ‘Labyrinth’, Jennifer Connelly might be making friends with adorable Ludo and a whole variety of fun Jim Henson characters but she is also trying to stop her baby brother being held hostage for all eternity by the Goblin King.

Despite being within a loving and close family, growing up between Birkenhead and Liverpool under Margaret Thatcher’s reign meant that romance was not exactly very present in my surroundings. But these films changed that. There is a tender moment in ‘The Slipper and the Rose’ after the Prince and Cinderella have met at the ball. Richard Chamberlain is trying to explain to Cinderella how he has been feeling trapped by his Royal duty. But how she has changed that and made him feel how anything could be possible.

‘Whatever happens afterwards, I shall always remember this moment. And you must take my present happiness to make you happier.’

These films made me forget I was an eight year old with glasses and knotty hair and a lack of any understanding of the importance of PE. They showed me a world which I wanted to be part of. These films had drama and romance but they also had this slightly unreal edge with people suddenly bursting into song, accompanied by an unseen band. Or launching into complex yet clearly rehearsed dance routines, seemingly spontaneously.

I knew that in real life there was no such thing as fairy godmothers or mice which turned into horses, but I had been shown a place where these things could occur. My parents, noticing this trend in my favoured afternoon viewings and observing me hurling myself around the garden clutching my Clarks Princess shoe (the ones with the key in the sole), introduced me to the joys of youth amateur dramatics.

And the rest, as they say (whoever they are) is history. And the present. And hopefully the future if I can manage to stop cracking stupid gags in important interview situations.

After years perched in front of a tiny screen observing these theatrical masterpieces I now work within this industry which somehow manages to create ‘magic’ and romance in a pure, undiluted form. (I have hopes that if I play endless Ally MacBeal boxsets to my kids from a tender age they will grow up with an overwhelming desire to be a lawyer.)

So there you go. The reason I work in theatre.

Have I answered your question?



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The Shoe Report

I have done many daft things when I have been inebriated; agreed to run marathons, forgotten I’ve left my mobile in the ladies toilets of a pub, fallen asleep on the night bus and ended up in Essex, thrown up in my wardrobe...

But the stupidest things I do usually involve some form of technology. Like going on to E Bay after consuming the best part of a bottle of Merlot. Last year, when I was on a tour, I woke up in my digs with a fuzzy head and the vague memory of hitting ‘Commit to Buy’ on several occasions. Rolling over in bed I looked down to see that my laptop was still open and in ‘Stand by’ mode. It only took a couple of clicks for me to be informed that I had purchased some ‘Nautical wine glass charms’ and several pieces of costume jewellery with anchors on them. I had obviously been feeling rather homesick for the boat and had comforted myself by purchasing several maritime treats. According to the ‘History’ I had also viewed several rather beautiful vessels so I was fairly thankful that I hadn’t woken up to be the proud owner of a 60ft ‘project’ boat named Gemini Lady.

The other technology/alcohol related mistakes I have committed have obviously involved my Blackberry. There have been many mornings  when I have checked my Sent box with a heavy heart. Only to discover that I have texted an ex-boyfriend/someone I want to be my boyfriend/someone else’s boyfriend.

But my most recent blunder took place at the beginning of the tour that I have just completed. After a particularly boozy company meal which was then followed by more drinks in the pub and then a bottle of wine back at my Digs, I decided to write the Show Report. I was in exuberant spirits and went about the task in the way that I usually write a blog; slightly hammered and with the intention of entertaining.

The next morning I was woken by the throbbing in my head and the sunlight streaming painfully through the blinds. That distinctive heavy feeling was in my stomach and I could not shake the feeling that, once again, I had made a rather dreadful error. I checked my Blackberry but could find no trace of any indiscreet texts, only one to a cast member to say that I was home safe. It was timed at about 2am. But I knew I hadn’t gone straight to bed. I had done something else. I had.... written the Show Report. I lurched from under the covers and out into the little living room which I shared with another cast member.

On the table was my laptop. Still open and with the Stand By light flashing ominously. Standing guiltily next to it was a bottle of Merlot, devoid of any contents. A wine glass with my unmistakable pink lipgloss smeared round the rim was casually perched on the corner of the table. As I neared the scene of the crime, I shamefully noticed that my lipgloss was not only around the glass but the actual neck of the bottle. I disgust myself.

I audibly groaned and sank down into one of the chairs and hit a button on my laptop. My hotmail account flashed up before me, with the words.

‘Your message has been sent.’

Fuck.

Frantically, I brought up my Sent messages. At approximately 2.30am, I had sent an email to all of the creatives and the full technical team with the previous night’s Show Report attached. Although when typing I had evidently missed the ‘e’ key by a few millimetres. So it was actually entitled a ‘Shoe Report.’

I opened the attachment. As I scrolled down and read more and more of the document, I started to cringe. If I had ever managed to achieve the pretence that I was highly professional (which is admittedly very unlikely), I had probably managed to undo all of that with one single email.

The beginning of the Report started out normally enough. I said how many rounds there were, how many were in and all of the timings. But then I had ended the Report like this.

• Matthew Kelly was in attendance. The cast were very excited about this. They had stars in their eyes.
• There were big laughs for (insert several funny moments in the show here) Although the best laugh of the day actually came before the show when Mr Davies told us a story about the friends he is staying with. They have a young son and before his arrival, the mother told him that Mr Davies was an actor. The boy looked confused for a while but it later emerged that he thought Mr Davies was a tractor. Easy mistake.
• After the performance, the entire company visited Kayal, Leicester’s most popular Balti House. If you are ever in Leicester I would recommend it. (Have the lamb.)

Jesus Christ.

The people who read the Show Reports just want the information. They don’t want to hear me prattle on about other things which I have privately found amusing. I dragged myself back to my bed feeling rather ashamed of my improper and disreputable behaviour.

However, a couple of hours later, I was roused from my dreams (a vivid nightmare where I had got my boobs out at a Company Meal) by my Blackberry beeping with a couple of e mails from members of the Creative team. The general feeling was that they had enjoyed my Show Report and had been amused by it’s slightly comical content.

Had they just been sent to me? No. The people who had sent it had hit ‘Reply all’. Other people on the Show Report list will have been aware that, although maybe they had found my Show Report inappropriate, other people had found it acceptable. The knot in my stomach relaxed slightly and I felt marginally better about going into work.

Once there, I was greeted by other people who had enjoyed the Show Reports.

Since then, I have felt happier to approach my Show Reports with a slightly more relaxed attitude. Of course, whenever anything serious happens, I abandon all humorous comments and observations and concentrate solely on whatever incident has occurred. But if the show has passed like a Mike Leigh film (enjoyable enough but nothing has really happened), I see no harm in putting my own mark on them.

Plus, having spoken to friends of mine, making the Show Report an enjoyable read can actually be beneficial. Many directors, sound designers and lighting designers have several shows running at the same time and so their e mail accounts can get clogged up with many Show Reports which then may just get skimmed over. But if yours is welcome in somebody’s Inbox and if it may even raise a smile when they see it pop up, it’s instantly more likely to be read properly.

Another reason why I like doing the Show Reports is that it helps me deal with my Abandonment Issues.

No, seriously.

On each show I work on, I get struck with the most unbearable Post Press Night Blues. The better the show, the more crippling it is and I know exactly why. The show I worked on before this last tour was a total gem of a production. The Creative and Technical team were adorable and even though the Tech Week was not without it’s issues, we all bonded and supported each other. The LD made everybody tea in our breaks and the Composer teased me fondly about my constant hair twiddling. The Set Designer and I started and ended every single day with a bear hug and we all laughed uncontrollably when he managed to set his own head on fire. All the Press Night cards that were exchanged between us were filled with in-jokes and complimentary words and then we all went and got hammered together in an R and B club in Notting Hill where I told my DSM at regular intervals that she was pretty and that I loved her.

The next day at work I came in, feeling undoubtedly hungover and intensely lonely. Everybody had left me and now I was by myself. No more camaraderie around the kettle or chummy banter. And if one of the cast set their head on fire I would be expected to do something about it and not just laugh and point.

When one of my actors arrived he found me slumped at my desk surrounded by empty champagne bottles and discarded false eyelash containers.

‘What’s up babe?’ he enquired.

I peered over my sunglasses and explained my mourning for the creative team and how every Press Night I was forced to deal with my Abandonment Issues.

‘Oh but this is the bit I love best!’ he exclaimed. ‘I love it when everyone leaves and then it’s just us. Just the actors. And you.’

I tried hard not to burst into tears at this terrifying prospect. And throughout the rest of the performance I nursed my feelings of loss. But once the show was over, I realised that I could still have daily contact with all of these people by using the Show Report. This actually cheered me up immensely and my sense of loneliness eased.

But back to my last tour. Once I was safe in the knowledge that my audience did not think my chirpy Show Reports  inappropriate, I started to take real pleasure from entertaining those who read it. As I was too busy to write or blog, it was a joy to have a genuine and professional reason to write daily. It should also be noted that the creatives and the producer, as well as being unbelievably talented and exceptionally professional, also had a fabulous sense of humour. Plus the production itself was jovial and the tone of my Show Reports slotted in with the show. I sometimes ventured off the topic of the performance and gave my opinion on the theatre itself and the venues that we were touring to. Sometimes I passed comment on the activities that the cast had partaken in during the day and what my digs were like.

So then I started asking other Stage Managers how they approached their Show Reports and was delighted by some of the responses I got. It turns out that the best way to write these all-important documents is to use honesty, humour and Spell-check. Apparently one Show Report mentioned a ‘full standing ovulation’ at the end of one performance. And I also got sent a Show Report which talked about how a cast member had been feeling poorly because they had been bitten by some kind of insect.

The Show Report itself stated that ‘Ms Davidson was feeling under the weather due to an incest bite.’

I got sent a Show Report written by a CSM who had simply had enough of a well-known actress who was very high maintenance. Let’s refer to her as Ms Jenkins. The Report went something like this.

·         The Stage Left truck has a downstage wheel sticking and needs attention.

·         The cuff on Mr Andrews’ right hand sleeve has started to unravel and needs attention.

·         Ms Jenkins, as a rule, just constantly needs attention.

The other fabulous thing about live theatre is that sometimes stuff happens and you don’t even need to try and make the report funny. It just is. Like when during a Shakespearean piece somebody says ‘upgrade her’ instead of ‘upbraid her’. Putting that in a Show Report is sure to make someone smirk.

The other great use that Show Reports have is that the actors actually get slightly terrified of them.

‘Am I in the Show Report?!’ they quiz you, accusingly. I find that no answer is required. Just a smile.

There is no question that I will work on some productions where doing my style of Show Reports is not acceptable (I doubt that if I worked for Nicholas Hytner he would want to hear about a jolly company surfing trip) and I will certainly sometimes demonstrate some self-censorship. But while I work for companies who embrace the fun and sheer joy of theatre as much as I do, then I will continue to write my Reports with those elements in mind.

There have been many requests for me to make my Show Reports public but actually, as I read through them now, there are many things which, out of context, don’t actually make much sense to someone not involved in the show. Plus out of respect to the company, who have been so wonderful to me, it may not be appropriate to publish private documents.

And of course I am still dreaming of the day when my semi-autobiographical novel (!) gets published and makes me my fortune. So maybe I will just save them all for that. This is the novel which of course then gets turned into a hit comedy/drama series with Sheridan Smith playing myself and Benedict Cumberbatch playing my hot actor love interest. (I can dream, can’t I?)

Last Saturday I sent my last Show Report to the team and was delighted by the responses I got. I like to think that in a few years, not only will these reports tell me the running times and audience figures, but also trigger memories of the time we spent together and the incidents that made me laugh. I am also keeping a record of all the things which have been sent to me and have relished the intriguing insights into other companies productions.

After a long, hard show when all you want to do is get home/get to the pub, it can be hard to muster up the energy and the brain-power to then compose your Report and it can be all too easy to poke at the keys and come up with standard sentences such as ‘clean show’ and ‘attentive audience.’ Believe me. I have done it.

But I love the feeling that by throwing in something vaguely funny, I may have made someone smile after a long day. I have even gone and purchased a Thesaurus so that, in future, I can chuck in some clever long words. So now, if there is an accident and one of my cast starts bleeding, I can write in the Show Report that they were suffering from haematogenesis.

Get me.

I’ll just always remember to Spell Check.

Playing Teacher to the Taliban

Like a lot of people, I’m not really a fan of the Taliban.

They do rather nasty things, don’t they? Like banning chess and kite flying and other fun things. And randomly slitting people’s throats, publicly flogging women and cutting off their fingers as a punishment for wearing nail varnish.

Plus they have a very annoying habit of losing their socks on a regular basis.

‘Jeeeeeeeeess!!’ one whined at me. ‘I’m missing my socks!’

I exhaled deeply and blew my fringe up into the air.

‘Did you put it in the laundry last night?’

He pulled at his beard ‘I.... think so.’

‘Right. Okay. Let me go check the basket and I’ll be back in a bit.’

As I hurried out of the room, I passed another one fiddling with an AK47. He looked up at me, his big brown eyes just visible beneath the swathe of his turban. ‘I think this is broken,’ he mumbled forlornly.

‘Yes,’ I snapped, grabbing it from his hand. ‘It will be because you all keep playing with them. They’re not bloody toys, you know!’

I marched onwards, now brandishing the AK47 which was definitely looking a bit shoddy. I would have to attack it with some super glue on my next break. In the laundry room I hunted high and low for the thick grey socks but to no avail. I grabbed some spares in the hope that they would fit. If not, he would just have to go and terrorise innocent Afghans sporting just his sandals. I managed to locate him with his feet up, reading the Guardian. Upon his feet were the aforementioned grey socks.

‘Where were they?!’ I demanded.

‘I found them under a hijab.’

‘Jesus...’ I mumbled under my breath.

Back in my office, I flung a bunch of poppies off my chair and slumped down heavily. My DSM looked up from her paper. ‘Alright, love?’

I sighed before uttering a sentence I never thought I’d say.

‘The Taliban are really getting on my tits today.’

At that moment a loud rumble of raucous laughter echoed in the corridor outside our room. I calculated that it could probably be heard onstage during a quiet scene so stuck my head out with a finger pressed to my lips. They all recoiled immediately but just as I was about to close the door behind me, I heard one of them casually comment,

‘Jess is so like a disapproving teacher when she does that.’

This wasn’t the first time I have heard that comparison.  And as I have done several shows since, it also hasn’t been the last.

That’s one of the occupational hazards of being a stage manager. It can sometimes feel as if you are stopping everyone from having fun. You have a group of actors being slightly giddy about the opportunity to run around, sporting very realistic false weapons. Yet you are having to explain, at regular intervals, the danger of running with bayonets and the importance of spending a good twenty minutes a day on cleaning your false beard with acetone.

Remember the moment when the final school bell would ring and you would chuck your  Zig and Zag pencil case into your United Colours of Benetton bag, eager to get home to watch an episode of ‘The Biz’ ?(just me?) Only to have the teacher stand there with their hands on the waist, loudly proclaiming,

‘Sit back down. That bell is for ME, not you!’

The equivalent for these actors, was chucking their socks and white robes  into the laundry baskets, eager to get to the pub, only to be stopped in the doorway by myself, brandishing a toothbrush and demanding to check everyone’s fake facial hair.

Many times during that show I felt like a teacher. And not like Michelle Pfeiffer in ‘Dangerous Minds’ or Jack Black in ‘School of Rock’. More like the teacher you had who was at the forefront of the anti-Marbles campaign and who confiscated your Mizz magazine, leaving you unable to read the Paul Nicholls interview or discover which member of Eternal you were most like.

Sometimes, an element of being a stage manager just means being a bit of a killjoy. Which sometimes people confuse with your actual personality. In normal life, I don’t consider myself a killjoy at all. Quite the opposite. On a night out I am generally the person encouraging everyone to stay for  ‘just one more’ and am usually held responsible for any social activities which end up with people getting the first tube home at 6am because I have dragged them to ‘Heaven’ for dancing and then Balans to indulge in 4.30am Eggs Benedict swiftly followed by vodka martinis.

But in a theatre? Forget it. I’m Miss Trunchbull with a stopwatch. Which is someone I don’t always want to be.

Of course, this kind of behaviour is usually borne out of some dreadful situation that you have had to deal with because of someone ‘breaking’ a rule.  For example, take the ‘no liquids other than water onstage’ rule. There’s nothing like having someone spill a cup of tea on a stage which you have just swept and mopped to put you in a bad mood. But then this of course means that you have to scold every single actor who ventures onstage with a cup of tea. It’s hardly the crime of the century. But with a cast who insist on bringing drinks onstage, you can become a real nag. Which can instantly make you pretty unpopular. Especially when you are dealing with a hungover actor on a matinee day when he has just made himself a coffee.

And then there are the more extreme situations. Most people think that I am being overly sensitive about actors leaving the building after the half hour call. And admittedly I used to be pretty casual about it. But that was until I had to deal with the totally unfunny and very unpleasant situation of witnessing one of my cast being arrested at the five minute call.

In full costume.

Okay, so maybe it was a little bit funny. But only about six months later when I was telling the story to a rapt audience in Joe Allen’s.

But anyway, as ‘fun’ as I am, there are times when I have to do things like Put My Foot Down. I have a different voice for it and everything. My father used to be a science teacher at a secondary school in Liverpool and would sometimes amuse my sisters and I with horror stories of when he had to tell the kids off.

‘And then....’ he would say, leaning in, ‘I used my ‘Teacher Voice.’ We would widen our eyes at the severity of the situation as we had all, at some point, experienced my dad’s ‘Teacher Voice’. My sister was on the receiving end of it when she dropped me as a baby. I got it when I set the living room carpet on fire and almost burnt down the house.

After a particularly bad day with the Taliban, during which I had used my Teacher Voice, I called up an older Stage Manager friend of mine, Deb, and relayed to her my worries about turning into some dreadful Teacher figure.

‘Of course we’re like Teacher’s,’ she casually replied. ‘Just without the teaching bit.’

‘Go on,’ I encouraged.

‘Well, we’re there to monitor punctuality. Get them back in after their fifteen minute playtime. Make sure they’re doing their homework.....’

‘Homework?’ I interrupted.

‘Learning lines,’ she explained.

I held the phone between my chin and my shoulder as I poured myself a large glass of Merlot.

‘Jesus, you’re right. It’s a pity we can’t phone up their parents when their work isn’t good enough.’

‘Well, no. So we phone up the next best thing,’

‘Whose that?’

‘Their agents.’

Even though it was funny, I struggled to laugh at Deb’s wit. ‘Oh, Deb. I don’t want to be a boring teacher. I didn’t get into this so I could constantly tell actors off.’

‘Being a teacher isn’t a bad thing,’ she consoled. ‘Didn’t you have really cool teachers at school? You know, the ones who you wanted to do really good work for. Or the ones who randomly brought in sweets for everyone. Or the really funny ones.’

‘Okay.’ I started to cheer up slightly. ‘What kind of ‘teacher’ do you think I could be?’

She paused slightly before replying.

‘The sort who gets into trouble for sleeping with her students.’

The conversation was terminated by myself not long after that comment. But the idea of being a teacher stayed with me for a while after and I found myself remembering the teachers I had experienced when growing up.

Was I like the rather overbearing Mrs Kinnear who made me weep with despair because my six year old handwriting was not up to her rather impossible standard? Or was I like the rather wet Miss..... I forget her name... who stood there with tears rolling down her cheeks as the entire class, as one, toasted the frogs that we were supposed to be dissecting on our Bunsen Burners.

For the rest of the run, this feeling nagged at my sub conscious. Right up until the final day.

In between the matinee and the evening show, I got told that I needed to go to the mens dressing room immediately. I found every single one of my Taliban, plus the rest of the company, brandishing a large envelope with my name on it. Inside was a couple of hundred pounds worth of Sanctuary vouchers which was easily enough for myself and a friend to go and spend a day in the famous Spa itself. Very few moments in my life have left me completely speechless but this was definitely one of them.  

It can be genuinely tough sometimes to enforce the ‘boring’ rules of theatre upon your actors. But like many teachers, you aren’t doing it to be dull. In fact, the more I care about a project and a company, the stricter I become as all I want is for the show and the actors to achieve their full potential.

And now, as I think about the struggles I had with Mrs Kinnear and Miss Wetwipe, I realise that it is Mrs Kinnear who actually sticks in my mind, whose name I can actually remember. And who, on the last day of the year, probably ended up with a half decent present.

I admittedly may have nagged, reprimanded, exasperated and tutted over that cast. But the memory I hold dearest about them is that moment in their dressing room and feeling like a teacher on the last day of term; proud to have worked with every single one of them.

And despite whatever had happened, slightly heartbroken to have to let them go.

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Am I Having Fun Yet?

Working in theatre is fun.

Apparently.

I got into this industry under the impression that I would never need to rise from my bed before midday and could skip into a theatre, do some cues for a couple of hours and then fall into a pub to spend my easily earned cash on whole boxes  of Merlot  and sugar bowls over-flowing with cocaine.

Of course, the reality is very different. Admittedly, throughout the early stage of my career (The ASM Years), I did generally stay in bed till noon.

Well, okay. Three forty five

I would then rise, reach for the Nurofen and trot into my venue at about six pm. The next hour would then involve swanning about and placing the props in (approximately) the right place before spending the performance reading ‘Heat’, deciding which of the cast I most wanted to sleep with and counting down the minutes until I could fling myself down the stairs of the Phoenix to kill off several hundred brain cells and lose a few more ounces of dignity.

Ten years on and things are pretty different. And there are days when theatre is no longer ‘fun’.

It’s like a family game of Monopoly. It all begins with smiles and giggles but then an hour in and your dad puts a hotel on Mayfair and suddenly the fun and games are over. It’s dull and depressing and you realise how much the game actually resembles your own pitiful financial situation; skint and owing a lot to your parents.

You get into the theatrical world because it looks fun and enticing but the further down the career path you get, the more you realise it is a lot more serious than you originally thought.

For instance, I sat down to watch ‘Pleasantville’ recently (stay with me) and for the first five minutes I enjoyed Tobey Maguires geeky performance and Reese Witherspoon’s smart-ass, slutty  character. The two of them get sucked into the TV and are transported from the 90’s back to the 50’s. I had seen the trailers and assumed that the film would be about Tobey and Reese going through a series of hilarious japes in their attempts to get back to modern day. A bit like ‘Back to the Future’ (arguably the best film of our time) but without the weird incesty bit.

But be warned. It’s not like ‘Back to the Future’ at all. It turns out that ‘Pleasantville’ is NOT a hilarious time-travel comedy and is actually a really serious film about prejudice and racism and repressed desire and all kinds of other issues. I expected 'Back to the Future' but got 'To Kill A Mocking Bird.' And don't get me wrong, I enjoyed it but it just wasn’t what I expected. And I had an overwhelming desire to watch 'The Goonies' immediately after.

So in conclusion, I am saying that working in theatre is very similar to watching the film ‘Pleasantville.’ (Not my best analogy I know).

It’s great but I sometimes wonder if it’s what I signed up for.

When thinking about this, the incident which springs to mind is something which occurred recently. I was working on a show as CSM and was backstage during a matinee, assisting an actress with a quick change when my Deputy suddenly said my name over the headsets. I could tell by the tone of her voice that it was serious.

‘What?’ I quickly responded.

‘An actor has fallen through the stage.’

I honestly believe that when I am on my death bed and various points of my life flash before my eyes, that moment will definitely be one which I revisit. (That and the moment Freddie Flintoff hugged me in the Press Club). I felt the Pret A Manger Chicken and Pesto sandwich I had consumed two hours before regurgitate itself in my throat as I conversed with various departments about what to do whilst trying to remain calm.

It turns out that a section of the stage had a slight structural issue (unknown to us all) and that when the actor had stepped on to it, his foot/ankle/leg had gone through. The actor managed to extract his leg from the hole and continue with his speech without barely pausing for breath. Although the stage was still left with a gaping hole in it.

We had about ten minutes of the performance left and as the rest of the play was to take place on a section of the stage away from the hole, we decided that it was not a Show Stop Situation and that we would continue. Although obviously there would be a huge aftermath to deal with.

What then occurred was a flurry of phone calls and e mails as I tried to arrange for the issue to be solved before the evening’s show.

I always remember a Post Show notes session I attended after a particularly disastrous preview of another production. The acting had been bad, the scene changes had been bad and we had several major technical issues. All in all, it was a disaster. The director stood in front of us all and solemnly announced,  

‘That was so bad that I closed my eyes and wished I wasn’t in this theatre.’

I remember thinking that not only was that a pretty wanky and over dramatic thing to say, it was also a fairly odd way to deal with a terrible situation. I thanked myself that I had never been compelled to do something similar. But on the day that The Actor Fell Through The Stage, I did actually choose that director’s method of dealing with a shit situation.

I closed my eyes and wished that I was Cheryl Cole.

It didn’t work. Obviously. So instead, I decided that the far better and more mature way to deal with the situation was to pretend that I was actually in my very own episode of C.S.I.  

I roped off the area of the incident and took many pictures of the hole in the stage. I spoke to everyone involved using a very grave and serious tone and then instructed my Deputy with very short, rapid fire sentences.

It seemed to work although even I admit that wearing the shades was a step too far.

The stage was eventually fixed and the evening performance passed without incident. The actor was made a fuss of and accident books were filled out. I finally left the theatre having sent out many reports and photos and making sure that everything was well documented.

At 11.00pm I flopped into a tube carriage with my earphones jammed into my ears and tried to block out the Saturday night London life which was going on around me. I was tired and grumpy and not in the mood for shrieking, pissed up revellers. But at the same time I didn’t fancy going back to the boat for a cup of Horlicks and some hummus. As the train pulled into Tottenham Court Road station I made an impulsive decision to jump off. And within minutes I was inside the Phoenix.

The barman recognised me instantly.

‘Not seen you in here for a while?’ he grinned.

‘Yeah, I’ve been busy. Merlot please.’

Just as I pulled out my wallet to pay, I felt my Blackberry buzz for the millionth time that night within my pocket. I pulled it out and read an e mail from somebody very senior from The Office. Instead of a rant about the poor quality of the stage, it contained praise for myself and my team, complimenting us on how we dealt with the tough situation. The sick feeling which had sat within my stomach for most of the evening was replaced with something a bit warmer and altogether more satisfying.

I admit that the days of long lie-ins, no responsibility and late call times are definitely over.  Sometimes I do still miss the simple and joyous period of ‘The ASM Years’. But as I have got older and accepted more responsibility, I have to admit that the amount of job satisfaction I get is more valuable to me than an incredible night out.

The large glass of dark red liquid appeared on the bar in front of me, just as I heard my name called from the other side of the room. I turned to try and locate who was yelling out my name and soon saw an actor I had worked with a few years ago weave his way towards me. We caught up with each other and once our glasses were drained we ordered another bottle of wine and launched into a full on drinking session. It was Saturday after all and I didn’t need to be anywhere the following day.

I told him about the traumas of the evening and he looked suitably horrified.

‘Christ!’ he exclaimed. ‘Sounds like fun!’

Naturally, he was being sarcastic. The events of the evening had been anything but fun. But the e mail that I had been sent reassured me that I had helped to make a truly dreadful situation okay again.

I am still having fun. It’s just a more serious kind of fun.

Just like 'Pleasantville'.

See?

 

 

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Why I Hate David Nicholls

‘One Day’ has come out at the cinemas and unlike the vast majority of my friends I won’t be going to see it.  Definitely not.

This is nothing to do with how I feel about the book. I read it on tour and quite enjoyed it. Nor is it anything to do with what I have heard about Anne Hathaway and how her accent apparently does a two hour pitstop tour of the British Isles, mostly lingering between Surrey and Reading yet never really making it to Yorkshire.

And I’m not scared of the sad ending either. If you haven’t read the book I won’t ruin it for you. Let’s just say there is an incident involving a bicycle, Anne Hathaway and a lorry. And one of them dies.

Usually, an afternoon in an air conditioned cinema watching a fairly mindless movie is just the sort of thing I like to do. But this is one movie I will be giving a miss.

The reason for this is my longstanding issue with David Nicholls.

David Nicholls is an ex actor and has also written a novel called ‘The Understudy’. It’s pretty rare that somebody writes a novel about the theatre industry and when I purchased it in Waterstones, earlier this year,  I was pretty excited about scurrying off to Holland Park, tucking myself under a tree with a Caramel Machiatto and devouring a  hundred odd pages of theatrical based modern literature before dragging myself into my own place of work.

Approximately twenty minutes after settling down with my Starbucks cup and some edamame beans, I was storming back to Waterstone’s, book in hand, and asking the bewildered looking assistant for a refund.

‘Why do you want a refund?’ he asked me.

‘This book is offensive!’ I hissed, ‘I don’t want to read it.’

The assistant pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘I’m not giving you a refund.’

‘Why not?!’

‘There’s froth on the spine.’

In my haste to pack up my belongings from the park I had accidentally spilled some of my Caramel Machiatto onto the odious item. Damn.

‘Fine.’ I spat, shoving the soiled book into my bag, ‘But I’m not reading the rest of it.’ And with that, I turned on my heel and hurried to my venue while the shop assistant smirked from behind his counter. Research has since shown me that David Nicholls used to work in Waterstone’s so they are obviously all in league with him.

Pricks.

The book starts off okay enough. We meet our hero, Stephen, on the set of a murder mystery. He is a jobbing actor and is currently playing the role of a dead body in a morgue. A scene of mirth unfolds as we get a sense of the pitfalls of the industry; the shame, the humiliation etc etc. But then once filming has wrapped, Stephen heads to the West End theatre where he is understudying Josh, a hot and successful movie star. Stephen is late for the half hour call and is met at Stage Door by Donna, the Company Stage Manager.

And it is at this point that my total detestation of Nicholls was born.

Donna is described as a ‘short’ and ‘wide’ woman with a ‘large, blunt’ face. Her hair is ‘brittle’ and ‘ex-Gothic’. Apparently she has the ‘demeanour of an embittered games teacher’ and is ‘permanently’ dressed in ‘regulation black denim’ and always carries the ‘regulation bunch of keys’.

Well thanks a lot Nicholls. Thanks a fucking bunch.

For years now, I have struggled with the stereotype which is bestowed upon stage management and have fought valiantly against it. But again and again I am confronted by people who seem unnerved by female stage managers who don’t spend their whole lives resembling the love-child of Kathy Bates and Zach Galifianakis.

I once attended a Press Night party of a dear actor friend of mine who introduced me to one of his cast members, a young actor who I thought I recognised from an episode of Waking the Dead.

‘Are you an actress?’ he enquired.

‘No,’ I shook my head, ‘I’m a stage manager.’

Young Actor scrunched up his forehead. ‘Oh.’ He swigged his drink. ‘You don’t look like a stage manager.’

Take into account that I was at the party of a production that I wasn’t actually working on so why I would look like a stage manager was beyond me. I was wearing a rather lovely purple shift dress from French Connection teamed with gold kitten heels and the obligatory Press Night false eyelashes. But this had obviously confused Young Actor who expected me to be wearing head to toe black and sporting a stopwatch in order to record the running times of the night’s festivities.

I pressed him on the matter.

‘Well what do stage managers look like?’ I asked.

He smirked before leaning in to me in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘Well, you know. Stage managers are usually a bit,’ he looked around before delivering his verdict,

 ‘Rough.’

I contemplated telling him that I had noted from his biog in the programme that he was from RADA. And how I thought graduates from RADA were usually a bit.... talented. But decided against it. I get into enough trouble by offending  my own cast members, never mind somebody else’s.

I politely detached myself from Young Actor’s company but was troubled by his words. Were stage managers really viewed by the acting fraternity as ‘rough’?

The next day Billington reviewed Young Actor’s performance and described it as ‘tongue-tied’, ‘gauche’ and ‘lacklustre’ which made me feel marginally better. And after a few days I had forgotten his comment and found an actor within my own company to be annoyed about.

But then I read the first few pages of ‘The Understudy’ and all these feelings came back to the forefront.

So lets pick apart Mr Nicholls description of ‘Donna the Stage Manager’.  Who is also apparently the Anti-Christ.

She is a ‘wide’ woman, apparently. Now  I am not fat. I have boobs and a bum admittedly. And the kind of little tummy where the twice weekly Nando visits tend to sit. But fat? No. I even attend regular Bikram Yoga sessions to fight this. And I don’t even really know any fat stage managers. Backstage areas are usually tight enough as it is and it would be logistically impossible to work back there if you were the size of Ricki Lake during the Compulsive Eating Years. Even as a size 10 I often find myself pressed up against an actor during a quick change as I try to squeeze past in time for my next cue.

Although admittedly, that’s not always an accident.

Now let’s take the clothes. What word did Mr Nicholls use?

Regulation. Regulation, faded, black denim.

I don’t like the word ‘regulation’. According to my thesaurus, it also means ‘law’. Is the author suggesting that it is the ruling that all Stage Managers have to wear faded black denim clothes. Not one piece of my blacks clothing is denim. When I shop for black clothes I will usually find well-fitting black tops which accentuate certain.... features.

Listen, I spent years praying for boobs and now I have these 32F’s, they’re not being hidden under some baggy, loose-fitting hoodie for three hours a night.

And when shopping for work trousers, I will spend a good twenty minutes in the changing rooms bending over, stretching and jumping up and down. Some productions require a lot of action and movement from Stage Management and when I am at work I like to be safe in the knowledge that I am being judged on my ability and skill. Not whether or not I have a muffin-top or a builder’s arse.

One night, as I was applying a slick of lipgloss at the five minute call, a wardrobe girl looked at me quizzically.

‘Who are you trying to impress?’

The answer is nobody. But why am I not allowed to look presentable when at work? Many people go to work in offices wearing clothes worth hundreds of pounds and full make up. They don’t do their job to an audience, the way an actor does, but they still make the effort and nobody questions why they do this. So why do I get teased and questioned for making myself presentable despite spending most of my work time in the dark?

Plus, as a Stage Manager, you never know when something may happen during a performance. A couple of years ago I had to deal with an incident where one of my cast collapsed onstage during a performance. Going onstage to handle the situation infront of four hundred gawping audience members was pretty horrific.

But at least I could do it safe in the knowledge that I had plucked eyebrows, a straight fringe and well applied mascara.

And the ‘surly demeanour’? It may come as a surprise to you, David, but I sometimes do something a bit crazy with my cast members.

They Become My Friends.

We do things like Spend Time Together Out Of Work. Would they do this if I was churlish and disagreeable? I don’t think so. Yes, they sometimes annoy me and admittedly I can lose my temper with them. But I don’t spend my time permanently stomping around like an ‘embittered games teacher’ (except maybe on matinee days) and nor do I know many Stage Managers who do.

So, in conclusion, Mr David Knickerholes, while the rest of the world flocks to the cinema to see the movie of your book ‘One Day’, I shall not.

I shall spend my days attending Bikram Yoga or trying on tiaras in Accessorize. Maybe I will read a little bit of Hardy (you know, a proper author) before getting my hair carefully highlighted. Perhaps I shall visit the Kings Road to purchase new, sleek black clothing.

And in the evening, if my cast are late, will I be ‘surly’?

No.

Will I greet them with a ‘blunt’ face and ill fitted black denim clothing?

No.

Will I jangle my ‘regulation big bunch of keys’ at them.

Well.

Probably, yes.

I have to exert authority somehow.

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