Fifteen Pounds

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A few days ago I stood, completely naked, in a stranger’s bathroom. On the tiled floor in front of me was a set of bathroom scales which I had been religiously standing on every Friday morning for the past three months. The same set of bathroom scales which I bought from an Argos in Southend and, along with the set and props and costume of my touring play, have been put into a Paul Matthew truck each week and taken around the country.

Tentatively I stepped on and, as I had done every week previously, held my breath a little and squeezed my eyes shut. I stood perfectly still for a few seconds before gradually opening one eye and then the other. Peering down I saw ten bright pink pedicured toes. And above them was the digital display flashing several digits. The digits which I had longed to see for so long.

My initial reaction was to shriek and whoop but Digs Landlady and Female Understudy lay slumbering just the other side of thin, hollow doors. As a woman on a diet I am aware that I can be annoying at the best of times but even more so at eight thirty in the morning. So I settled for a silent and naked little victory dance (think Uma Thurman in ‘Pulp Fiction) before pulling my pj’s back on and sneaking back into the World’s Smallest Bedroom and climbing under The Thinnest Duvet In Southampton.

Fifteen pounds. Fifteen whole pounds.

A handful of tummy wobbles……. Gone.

A generous pinch of bingo wing…….. Dissolved.

A dimpled little thigh………… Okay, that is still there. (Dieting can only do so much, people. It’s not freaking lipo.)

And you know what I was most delighted about?

I did it on tour.

In the past I have never been particularly productive on tour. And the beginning of this one was no different. My free days were spent going to the cinema to see films I had no real interest in seeing (although ‘Wreck It Ralph’ turned out to be quite the cinematic masterpiece). And then, post show, evenings were spent holed up in digs with large quantities of wine and ‘The Big Reunion’ or throwing up outside pool halls in Aylesbury.

True story. I thought that Jagerbombs were my kind of drink. Turns out they are really not.

In the February of this year I was still carrying those festive pounds and feeling rather lethargic, bloated and, dare I say it, pretty unattractive. I had no motivation to exercise and the cold weather and low self-esteem pushed me to seek solace in chocolate, alcohol and Greggs. But the booze was only making me anxious and irritable and the constant stream of beige food was affecting my skin pallor.

I didn’t start this tour with a desire to lose weight. As a rule I have always been fairly comfortable in my own skin. But then something just kind of clicked and before I knew it I was a woman on a mission. A mission to get fit, get healthy, and get a bum like Kylie’s.

(It’s more achievable these days. She’s getting on a bit, is our Kylie.)

But where did this inspiration come from? Where did this whole journey begin?

Well, I’ll tell you dear readers. It happened in the most unlikely of places. This whole sequence of events was triggered in a fairly uneventful  little corner of the world. An unremarkable location which, I am led to believe, rarely inspires memorable feats of fearlessness or motivates any course of radical action. A place which is probably usually overlooked when one is seeking influential settings.

This whole thing started in the Green Room of the Wyvern Theatre, Swindon.

The company of my touring production were discussing what they would be giving up for lent. The usual suspects were being mentioned; chocolate, fags, magazines, gin. And I was just inwardly questioning if I could give up my obsession with consistently over analysing the opposite sex, when Female Understudy said that instead of giving anything up, she would be doing Weight Watchers over lent.

I eyed Female Understudy curiously. She did not look like a usual Weight Watchers candidate. Didn’t they have to be morbidly obese women with hairy chins and a penchant for manmade fibres? Didn’t joining Weight Watchers mean that you had to attend weekly meetings to discuss the amount of fat in a chocolate button and how you would have to scale Mount Kilimanjaro three times in order to burn off the calories in a KFC Bargain Bucket?

Female Understudy explained that you did not have to attend the meetings but that you could download an app and everything was explained on that. I whipped out my iPhone and downloaded it eagerly. I am keen on anything which involves my iPhone and gives me an excuse to not actually engage in conversation with other people.

‘Are you fucking Tweeting again, Jess?’

‘No I’m NOT Tweeting. I’m ACTUALLY doing my DIET, so THERE.’

The mention of the word ‘diet’ means that People Who Are Not Dieting tend to shrink away from you and also look busy with their own phone, for fear that you might list to them every single thing you have consumed that day and how it takes fifty minutes of water aerobics to burn off a Mars Bar.

From that moment in Swindon I logged my points daily and eagerly chatted to Female Understudy about my food intake. Once a week we basically held our own Weight Watchers meeting in a Pizza Express where we treated ourselves to salads WITH dressing (fuck YEAH) and compared notes on our weight loss whilst congratulating each other and exchanging tips and advice. Not only was this enjoyable for us but these more secluded meetings meant we prevented ourselves from slowly driving the company into a calorie counting insanity.

The thing with dieting is that you really do need to put the work in. It’s not easy. A lot of magazines advertise ‘quick fixes’ and ‘simple tips’ but that is genuinely total bollocks. I hate to break it to you but the only way to ‘Get A Body Like Jessica Ennis!!!!’ is to be a professional triathlete for a decade. Several lunges three times a week just aren’t going to cut it. And the usual ‘Helpful Tips’ are fine but you need to do additional stuff to see results.

·         Don’t take the escalator!! Run up the stairs!! Burn a few extra calories and see the difference!!

·         Swap your usual mid day biscuit for a banana!!! You will get an additional energy boost and no extra calories!!!

·         Hunger pangs getting too much? Drive a rusty pin into your eye!! The overwhelming pain and blood flow will distract you and keep you strong!!!

I did, however, take a ‘helpful tip’ on board which probably gave my weight loss process a massive boost.

I gave up booze.

The first reason was that I was pretty shocked to realise how fattening a large glass of Merlot was but also because I had got into a habit of seeking emotional solace at the bottom of a bottle of Blossom Hill. When that didn’t offer up any solution to my inner angst I would fumble to locate it within the dark and sickly sweet walls of a bottle of Port.

The hours before midday were ceasing to exist for me and the hours after were spent shuffling around in pyjama’s before being forced to head into town in search of complex carbohydrates and a Turkish Delight.

So I didn’t drink. For a whole month.

Once I started, I found I didn’t actually miss it that much and rather started to enjoy waking up each day feeling like a normal human being and not Lindsay Lohan. (Admittedly never met her but I’ll hedge a bet she ain’t a morning gal).

However, I did discover that being Booze Free and being someone who Works In Theatre does not actually go hand in hand.

Several years ago I was teching a show in Salisbury with a well known director from the Reasonably Successful Company. At the end of the day he took us all to a delightful pub for beers, bitching and open fire admiring. Director very dutifully got the first round in and asked Relight Man what he would like.

‘Orange juice please.’

On the second round, Relight Man once again asked for a soft drink.

‘Do you not drink then?’ asked Director.

‘No’ replied Relight Man. ‘I don’t.’

Relight Man offered no more explanation but Director was still pretty curious.

‘Is that for health reasons or because you used to be a despicable human being?’

Everyone laughed, including myself and Relight Man. (I always laugh at Director’s jokes. Believe me, I haven’t stayed in this industry this long by being efficient. Appreciative chuckles can equal and even outweigh a sexual favour when it comes to future employment.)

People find it hard to digest that you aren’t drinking. And if you aren’t you usually have to offer up a reason or explanation. I don’t know if that is a theatre thing but my dry spell led to me being called ‘boring’ on more occasions than I wish to recall, and I found myself having to defend myself and my choices which became tiresome and dull. Throughout the course of the tour I met up with several friends who permanently resided in the places where we were visiting and it sometimes was also an issue for them.

‘You’re not drinking? But now I feel like I can’t drink!’

‘But I thought we were going to have fun!’

‘You haven’t given up forever, have you?’

On more than one occasion I was tempted to drink some kind of alcoholic placebo; a drink which looked like booze but actually wasn’t. I was pretty confident that my partner would be unaware that I was sober and be able to go on to have a perfectly pleasant evening. And on some days I was tempted to knock back a glass of wine just to stop the comments but I swiftly came to the conclusion that I was not going to drink to make someone else happy.

After my full month of no booze I started to introduce drink back in. And it was good. Lovely in fact. But it was a different kind of drinking and far less regularly. Wine with good food at company meals or one or two drinks in a pub after work. Obviously I can’t promise that I will never again slip into the habit of drinking so much that I burst into tears for no reason or wake up slumped against a friend’s toilet cistern. But for now it’s working.

Even on tour.

And also I can feel very smug when I witness and take photos of things like this.

 

Where I live we throw up into bushes and toilets. In Canary Wharf they throw up into sparkly top hats.

I hate to break it to you but this is actually only half of the weight loss story. There is a whole exercise and hair dying section to go yet. Exciting, isn’t it? But I have a feeling we have all had enough of this self indulgent nonsense so I will save it for another time.

Christ.

It has just struck me that there is a possibility that one day I will go back to being my usual chubby, drunk self.

And when that happens, this blog post is going to come back and kick me right up my big fat, pissed bottom.

Fuck.





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The Little Blue Dot

I have arrived in my first digs. Me, my suitcase and my Lego shaped luggage tag (sock present) boarded the first train of many and I am now tapping this out from a lovely double bed in a large detached house in Cambridge. As I have resolved to save some cash on this job, I shunned the taxi rank when I stepped off the train and decided to use Google Maps and the inbuilt compass in my iPhone to get the bus to my digs.

I am a firm believer in using a compass and it always amazes me that more people don’t. I have often been stood in the middle of an alien town centre mumbling ‘so which way is north?’ before waving my phone in a figure of eight in order to re-calibrate the compass. (Only other iphone compass users will understand this.) I can’t deny that I also use the Maps app and have solemnly followed that little blue dot around the British Isles with the same faith and determination as a wise man following the North Star. But sadly, sometimes that little throbbing Dot of Deceit has let me down and led me to venues which were NOT my destination. The compass, however, always shows me north and has just assisted me in my journey to this week’s abode.

Despite the digs being slightly further out, I am incredibly pleased with them. The house is spacious yet cosy and Landlady is smiley and helpful without being annoying or cloying. This is a huge relief as my last digs when I visited Cambridge were massively disappointing. Not only was the bedroom chilly and claustrophobic but everything seemed to be covered in a gritty web of dust and fluff. The hall had piles of Good Housekeeping magazines which were coated in grimy lint and I wondered if the irony of this was lost on Landlady. During my brief ‘tour’ around her home, she used one phrase on several occasions whilst referring to various facilities.

‘This door/shower/TV/tap has a bit of a knack to it.’

For crying out loud.

I don’t want stuff which has a ‘bit of a knack to it’. I just want it to work. If you are charging people to stay in your house, just make things work. I don’t want to have to shoulder a door like a riot cop simply to leave the house. And I don’t want to turn a shower dial as tentatively as a safecracker to ensure I reach a comfortable water temperature which will neither scald nor freeze me. I just want to pay you money to stay in your house for seven sodding days and in return I expect you to provide me with basic facilities which function the way they are meant to.

However, this house is fresh and modern and I have my own bathroom . Landlady knows the drill and within seconds of stepping through the door she has shown me to my room and given me a key. She also saves me from having to negotiate that age-old digs predicament, that eternal etiquette quandary which has perplexed me for several years.

What is the polite length of time to wait before asking for the Wi-Fi code?

Some people say that, at minimum, you should have a cup of tea or make at least ten minutes of polite conversation. Some people think that, in order to let everyone know where you stand, you should make the request the minute you are through the door. However, no sooner are we in the room but she is pointing out a scrappy piece of paper on the dresser with numbers and letters on it. This ripped corner of an envelope may look like nothing but those innocuous numerals and characters contain the key to my touring happiness. They are my salvation, my liberation and my connection to friends, family and back-to-back episodes of mind-numbing television.

The much sought after Wi-Fi code.

‘I’ll leave you to it.’

I do an inner whoop of delight and settle in. As I unpack (pull random things out of my suitcase and throw them on the floor) I notice a little pile of posh hotel slippers next to the bed.

 

It’s a nice touch. Of course if I was staying in a fancy hotel those slippers would be nestling in amongst my suitcase within seconds. Usually taking those kind of luxury items from a place you are staying in is considered normal and acceptable. But taking these items from this kind of residence would not be okay. It would make me a shifty digs tenant with dubious morals. I won’t be taking these slippers but I do take a moment to admire them.

I am slightly further out of town and as it is pretty late, my options for food and beverages are limited. Landlady says that most things are shut but she points me in the direction of a Co-Op which is open till eleven. The cuisine offered there has very little nutritional value and, as I have just pre-booked a load of train tickets my funds until the next pay-day are pretty low.

These two contributing factors result in a dinner of an Admiral’s fish pie followed by a dessert of jelly beans.

When I return to the kitchen, Landlady is nowhere to be seen so I pop my dinner into the expensive microwave and observe my surroundings (ie, have a poke about). It is a delightfully charming home with style and elegance alongside character and warmth. The farmhouse style kitchen is so spacious that I could lie on the floor like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man and still not touch the counters. (I don’t). And on the kitchen counter is a luxury-sized tin of Quality Streets just brimming with foil wrapped chocolates. It’s so full that I doubt it would be noticed if I took a couple. (I do.)

On a kitchen wall is a wipe clean board with a shopping list. Amongst the reminders for washing up liquid and bird feed are the words ‘RED WINE’. They have been underlined several times and are followed by multiple exclamation marks. This tiny insight into her lifestyle makes me feel at ease, as does her framed print of Gustav Klimt’s ‘The Kiss.’ My mum has that picture in her hall at home and I draw a lot of comfort from seeing something so familiar yet personal within these new surroundings.

The microwave dings and I take the plate up to my room and get my laptop connected to the high speed Wi-Fi, ready to relax and enjoy my first night away. It is unlikely that I will continue with this luck for the whole seven months so I am just going to enjoy this comfort while it lasts. Sometimes the theatrical community can get a little stuck on discussing the weird, awful and genuinely terrifying digs. But just as it is fun to share anecdotes of the disasters, it is just as important to make sure we tell the tales of the good and of the commendable.

At this time of year a lot of productions are hitting the roads and a huge amount of performers, crew and stage management will be checking into stranger’s houses all over the country. A vast community of theatricals following maps, compasses and Tom-Tom’s in order to locate their resting place for that week. Sometimes these gadgets and gizmos can admittedly lead you in to unwelcoming surroundings and can remind you just how far you are from home. But there are also places with warm welcomes, hotel slippers, super speedy internet and an impressive range of cereals and teas.

Just follow the little blue dot.

 

 

 

 

 Thanks for reading this guys. If you are touring at the moment or have toured recently I would love you to tell me about your GOOD digs experiences. No doubt the bad tales will come later. As always any shares are VERY much appreciated. Just click on ‘Share’ at the top of the page. You can ‘Like’ my Page on Facebook (Girl In The Dark) or you can follow me on Twitter (@agirlinthedark) Feedback and comments are always fun to read.

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Tears, Tensions and Illicit Indiscretions

Touring can be hard. You are away from your friends, your family and you end up spending pretty much all of your time with your colleagues. I live in London and when I do a show here I do socialise with my companies but I don’t spend nearly as much time with them as I do with a company who I am out on the road with. When touring, your colleagues can become the first people you see in the morning and the last people you see at night. They are the people you drink with, eat with, laugh with and fight with.

Your touring colleagues can become just like your family. (Except you would never go on a night out in Sunderland with your family, chuck back too many tequila shots and end up in bed with your brother.)

I am about to embark on a tour and this one is a long one. Seven months going around the country with a group of people who were total strangers to me a matter of weeks ago but who will soon be the people who I turn to if I am homesick and who I arrange to see during the day when I am bored. My usual broad network of friends which feels large and varied will shrink quickly to the very limited social circle of my touring workmates. People Who Work In Theatre often describe being within a touring company as being ‘in a bubble’ which is definitely true.

A big, boozy bubble just floating around the country; drifting in and out of theatres, pubs and a variety of National Trust parks. (I’m not really a fan of the gardens but you can’t beat a stately home. Plus the cafes in them usually do a decent slice of Battenberg.)

As much as this beer-filled bubble can be pretty claustrophobic, the friendships which blossom within it can often end up a lot stronger than the connections which are made when doing a show in the city where you permanently reside. You get to know each other on a deeper level when you are out on the road. At a theatre in London I see my cast and stage management team for just a few hours each night. And after the show, people are eager to go home to see their partners, kiss their kids or take in three more back-to-back episodes of whichever DVD boxset they are charging their way through. However, on the road it is likely that during the day you have met with someone from your company for a coffee, a swimming session or an Orange Wednesday pizza/film.  And then once the show is done, people are always up for trying out a decent boozer or all trundling back to your shared house/flat for wine, pizza and an iPlayer catch up.

It is an element of the touring life which I really relish and I have formed very important and solid friendships from being out on the road. But just as this lovely little bubble can waft around the UK, buoyed by a gentle breeze, the isolation which comes from being held within the confines of this capsule lifestyle can be quite intense. Just as you may develop a sturdy alliance to someone because you are seeing them a lot, you may also find that peoples habits or personality traits can grate on you a lot more when you are in each other’s faces, pockets and pokey little dressing rooms.

It is an intense experience and having gone around the UK a few times now, I have worked out some coping strategies which can help me to keep the bubble floating as opposed to just having it burst due to stress, frustration and my loss of patience with someone who insists on repeatedly helping themselves to whatever (clearly labelled) Show Food they find in the green room fridge. (This incident mixed with cold, wretched digs, a stubbed toe and a lost phone charger led to the now infamous Colchester Tantrum  of 2007.)

Just as I can guarantee that you will find a Sports Direct mug in every Green Room round the country, I can also confidently state that It is unlikely that you will get through a long tour without some tears, tensions and illicit indiscretions. But I now do the following things to try and prevent them.

Firstly, during rehearsals it can be tempting to rashly suggest ‘Let’s ALL get digs together for the WHOLE tour.’ I usually book my own digs for the first few weeks until I have a grasp on who exactly I get on with. This generally means other people from the SM/backstage team. In the past I have stayed with cast members and found that even when drinking a bottle of wine in front of the box, I inevitably hear the words ‘I know you’re not at work now but…’ or ‘I do hate to talk shop…’

Tell you what, if you hate talking shop so much then don’t talk shop. In fact, don’t fucking talk. Night Cops is on.

I could probably write several thousand words on digs and no doubt soon will but sadly, digs are unpredictable and unless they are being recommended to you it is impossible to guarantee the quality. Even the decent ones can cause you issues. I once stayed in a very fancy house in Leicester;  stunningly beautiful bedroom with all mod-cons and a luxury bathroom. Sadly the clearly expensive shower not only had a large square shower head but also several jets which were built into the shower walls and gushed water out horizontally. The landlord of my digs was a strapping six foot seven bloke and these additional shower heads obviously washed his torso. But when I stepped my five foot three bod inside and hit the taps, I experienced what can only be described as waterboarding as the jets hit my eyes, nostrils, mouth and ears. Gasping and spluttering I spun around only to discover that the water sources went around me a full 360 degrees. In a blind panic I flailed about for the taps but only succeeded in making the water icy cold. The only thing I could do was duck down to a crouching position and finally get the water to stop. I mentioned this to my landlord who apologetically explained to me that he would have to pay for the engineer who installed it to come out and change the settings. Obviously I didn’t want to cause him trouble so resigned myself to crouching, Gollum-like, in the bottom of the cubicle for the entire week.

In a future post I will expand on the Do’s and Don’t’s of Digs but for now, all I will say is go with your gut instinct. If your phone call to book them is uncomfortable then don’t stay there. It’s really not worth it. Any places with lots of rules or regulations will also cause you bother and unease. Bad digs can be a huge contributing factor to how much you enjoy a tour and appropriate time and effort should be put into finding where you will reside. Booking last minute or in a rush can uncover real gems but it can also land you on a lumpy futon with a right wing housewife and several moulting cats.

But enough about digs. I have a feeling that you will be hearing more about my extensive opinions, advice and anecdotes so let’s get back to the touring thing.

I find that it is possible to get some kind of routine when touring and any kind of familiarity can really assist with dealing with the chaotic and unsettled lifestyle. Even if it is just having a weekly ritual. For me, once a week I like a Nando’s and a movie. The only good thing about globalisation in our country is that, when you are on the road, every single town is guaranteed to offer you a Nando’s and an Odeon. So even though you are in a different place every seven days you can still hold on to some kind of familiarity. Even if that familiarity is a lemon and herb chicken pitta with a side of fries and some Wild Herb sauce, followed by a darkened cinema auditorium and a small packet of sweet popcorn.

I asked on Twitter what advice people had and some people suggested ear plugs and eye-masks for when you are staying in those places with transparent curtains and paper-thin walls. I also got suggestions for apps which I have downloaded.

Yes I was downloading apps at quarter at four in the morning. What of it?

But mostly people said that they tried to make the time precious and just enjoyed it. Touring admittedly is not for everyone and I had the unfortunate experience a few years ago when I discovered that I was not built for tour bus touring, (sleeping in a carpeted coffin each night was not for me) but I really am going to do everything I can to savour this escapade.

So is the old saying true? What goes on tour, stays on tour?

Personally, I hope I manage to bring something home with me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks for reading guys. Loving all the comments, likes and feedback at the moment. If you enjoyed this blog you can click Share at the top of the page so you can tweet it or put it on Facebook. You can also 'Like' my Facebook page (Girl In The Dark) or follow me on Twitter (@agirlinthedark). The tinyurl is http://tinyurl.com/ao33cp6 if you want to tweet the link. Do leave a comment if you have enjoyed. Getting your feedback is so great and makes writing feel worthwhile!

 

 

Hello Goodbye

It’s almost the end of the year. I have just enjoyed a particularly fabulous Christmas and rather hope that my readers and friends did too. If you are an actual acquaintance of mine I have no idea what your Yuletide was like having purposefully avoided Facebook and Twitter from about one pm on Christmas Day onwards. This is so I can avoid the usual social media activity which accompanies this festive period. You know the sort; Dozens of ‘I said YES!’ status updates, hundreds of pictures of little Oscar and Tamara opening their presents (‘their  little faces were a picture’) and a billion Instagram photos of ‘lush’ turkey breasts, piggies-in-blankets and homemade stuffing.

I am starting to worry how far people will take this Taking A Picture Of Every Fucking Thing You Ingest trend. I can only imagine it will eventually result in people Instagramming the contents of their toilet bowls several hours after the delightful ‘nom-noms’ have been consumed; ‘Look at THIS Food Baby! Megalolz!’

Admittedly I am also guilty of sharing a photo on social media on Christmas morning. But it was definitely with the intention of amusing those who saw it.

For those of you who don’t know, my beautiful cat Molly who I got as a kitten when I was twelve, passed away earlier this year. She was an impressive eighteen years of age (do the maths) and her demise was heartbreaking but inevitable. She was very old but had a life of love and comfort.

My parents knowing that I was missing her, decided to get me some kind of replacement. My working life means I am unable to take on another pet so they got me the next best thing. They found a photo of Molly as a very small kitten and took it to a company who turned it into a suedette cushion.

 

It should be stated that they did do this in jest although I am now faced with the dilemma of where to place this object. Flatmate has expressed her lack of willingness for it to take up residence in our living room and I feel that the bedroom will also not be a suitable resting place for it;

‘Oh that? That’s the face of my dead cat blown up to nightmarishly large proportions and emblazoned across a suedette cushion. I sleep with it every night. Why are you putting your clothes back on?’

Spare room it is.

Anyway, I am very much looking forward to 2013. 2012 certainly had its ups and downs, and this seven month tour couldn’t come at a better time. For Christmas I got a beautiful new leather organiser which will soon be filled with digs addresses, receipts and train tickets. Just the way I like it. (Although experience has told me I shouldn’t keep all of my Nando’s receipts. After my last long tour I got a phone call from my accountant to inform me that there was no way the government would stump up for ‘that much chicken.’ Spoilsports.)

I even got given a Kindle which means I will be relieved of dragging several books around the country with me and can also read Cheryl Cole’s autobiography in public places without judgement.

So yes. 2013. Bring. It. On.

Some fun things happened with this blog over the past few weeks which I would also like to explore in 2013. As some of you know the link to it got tweeted by a well-known person to their 35,000 followers which resulted in a huge rise in the number of hits I got and some lovely responses from other people in the industry. I even got contacted by the Stage Management Association and asked if I would like to maybe contribute to their magazine, Cueline, in the future.

Yes, yes, I know. Cueline is not exactly a well-known publication and I am not going to get paid for it. But look at Charlie Brooker. He started off writing very small articles and comic strips (the brilliantly named ‘Cybertwats’) for the little-known ‘PC Zone’ in the mid nineties and look at him now; well known media personality, own TV show and he bagged an ex Blue Peter presenter.

Admittedly research has shown that Brooker gained notoriety and consequently furthered his career by actually getting ‘PC Zone’ removed from the shelves of many British newsagents. He did this by creating a one-shot cartoon titled ‘Helmet Werstler’s Cruelty Zoo’. It professed to be an advert for a theme park created by a Teutonic psychologist for children to take out their violent impulses on animals rather than humans. It was accompanied by photoshopped pictures of children smashing the skulls of monkeys with hammers, jumping on a badger with a pitchfork and chainsawing an orang-utan.

I can’t imagine Cueline allowing me to do something in a similar vein but you never know.

Seriously, I am looking forward to the challenge of being given an actual topic to write about and a word limit instead of rabbiting on about nothing at all until I eventually bore myself and admit defeat.

I also recently found an article about Improving Your Blog which I read with interest. I have never really got that geeky about my blog. I know how to look into its statistics but I have never got fancy or adventurous with graphics or lay-out or links or anything like that. I just like to write it. However, apparently I can generate more interest by doing the following.

a)      Adding pictures. (Tick. See above.)

b)      Writing every day.

Personally, I do not have the time to blog every day. My heavy routine of wine-drinking, ‘Heat’ reading and bitching prevents me from doing anything useful. BUT, as I am about to embark on a long tour I am going to endeavour to write at least once a week. Even if it is just a short paragraph reviewing whichever delightful right-wing town I am visiting accompanied by a photo of my temporary digs bed complete with BHS dust-ruffle

But enough about me….time to write about stage management stuff.

During the run up to Christmas I was simultaneously rehearsing for my new tour during the day and still stage managing the final week of my Greek Tragedy in the evening.  At five o’clock I would leave rehearsals in Elephant and Castle in order to race across London to do a speedy re-set for the evening’s performance of the other job.

I was shattered and in desperate need of an E.T. Day. Now, this is not a day where I settle down on the couch to watch the emotional tale of the Extra Terrestrial, but rather a day where I choose to behave like him. So basically this involves shuffling round my flat in my dressing gown, pulling random food out of the fridge to stuff into my mouth, then getting drunk and falling down.

Like E.T.

But the Greek Tragedy has now ended its run, so when I return after the Christmas break I will just be in rehearsals for the new tour.

It was very hard to say goodbye to my Greek tragedy company as they were a great bunch of people and I am pretty confident that we will be able to sustain friendships. (And I am talking about actual friendships which continue beyond the realms of Facebook and Twitter.) But as I was already in the throes of starting a new production, I have to admit that I was naturally pulling back and beginning to put focus on to my new cast and company as this is a group of people who I will be seeing on a daily basis for the next seven months.

Seven whole months.

I was pretty nervous about starting rehearsals. It still is and always will be like the first day of school. I have actually written about what first days of rehearsals are like before (Meet and Greet) so won’t go into it in major detail again. But this one was no different, although if anything maybe I felt even more nervous as, for the first time in a long time, I did not previously know one person either in the cast or the stage management team. Having spent so much time working with the same companies and actors over and over, it was quite unnerving to step into a room of strangers again.

On Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday I was still doing my evening performances too which was definitely contributing to my unsettled feeling. But even on Thursday, feeling weary but with the knowledge that I did not have to be anywhere after rehearsals, I still felt a bit awkward and slightly yearning for the familiarity which comes with being in a rehearsal room with old friends or at least people who you are accustomed to.

However, by Friday evening I was feeling in a better place. Mostly because I had been able to sleep and also because I was in a pub. With two of my cast members.

As the rehearsals were winding down at six pm, I had been tempted to suggest to my new company that we go for a drink before the Christmas holidays but shyness (yes really) prevented me. Despite my desire to visit a nearby and welcoming establishment.

Every day during rehearsals I had passed a small mock tudor pub on the corner of a busy main road.

The Tankard.  

At lunchtime middle-aged men with flat-caps, misogynistic views and nicotine-yellow fingers sat on the exterior benches. But in the evening I could hear muffled donkey-like guffaws and see the lattice windows steaming up, almost blocking the tantalising yellow and orange whiskey glow which lit up the chewing-gum stained pavement outside.

I was desperate to go inside. Nothing intrigues or pleases me more than a proper London boozer. You can keep your All Bar Ones, your Bar 38’s and your Pitcher and Piano’s. Give me a Guinness and black, a packet of pork scratchings and a landlady who looks like Amy Winehouse’s mother any day of the week.

So once I had closed the Prompt Copy at 6.00pm on Friday afternoon and was doing up the buttons on my duffle coat, resigned to a night on the sofa, my ears pricked up as I heard one of my actor’s voices.

‘Anyone fancy a pint?’

I whirled round to see one of my cast near the rehearsal room door, standing expectantly with raised eyebrows and open palms.

Myself and an actress vocally ventured that yes, we would like a festive tipple to begin the Christmas celebrations.

‘Great,’ he replied, clapping his hands together. ‘I know there’s some good places further into town. But… does anyone fancy that funny little place on the corner? ‘The Tankard’?’

My heart leapt at the realisation that Someone Who Likes Pubs That I Like was in this company. I like to think that this is always a good start when bonding with other company members.

‘The Tankard’ definitely did not disappoint. The drinks were unbelievably cheap, there was a life size moving Santa Claus, the barman continued to have a ferocious argument with his girlfriend (who was on my side of the bar) as he served me, and we got repetitively accosted by a drunk seventy year old man who was convinced that Actor Who Likes Pubs That I Like was David Seaman.

‘DAVID SEAMAN!’ he bellowed, jabbing his finger at the actor. ‘IT’S DAVID FUCKING SEAMAN!’

Actor Who Likes Pubs That I Like politely yet firmly told this man that he was not the popular Arsenal goalkeeper David Seaman. But this did not stop this man repetitively pointing and shouting ‘DAVID SEAMAN’ whenever he passed our table.

We were all in the kind of mood which meant that these events enlightened our evening rather than dampened it. And as I rode on the tube home, emitting the kind of glow which only four pints of Guinness’ can emit, I realised that it was okay I didn’t already know anybody in the company. Here was a whole new group of interesting people for me to go round the country with. I am not expecting all of them to like me or always agree with me or become my Bestest Closest Friends. But I am definitely looking forward to more pub trips, more Guinness’ and more tales.

Actually, I can’t frikking wait.








Thank you so much for reading the above post. My last post got such an unbelievable amount of traffic which was largely down to how many people posted, shared, tweeted, followed etc. You have no idea how much I appreciate every single person who passes this blog on and every bit of support is hugely appreciated.

If you liked this blog, please click on 'Share' at the top of the page. You can also 'Like' my Facebook page which is 'Girl In The Dark' or follow me on Twitter (@agirlinthedark). If you want to tweet it you can use this tinyurl which is http://tinyurl.com/ctteq6f. Also do leave a comment if you enjoyed. I LOVE to get your feedback.

Hope you all have a wonderful new year and I hope to keep babbling in 2013.

See ya!

Jess
xx

Things I Have Learnt

What have I learnt?

This is a question I try and ask myself towards the end of every production. Being a stage manager can be an odd thing and the skill set required varies from job to job. Despite doing this for over a decade, it is very often that I step into a job and realise that I am going to need to learn something new and learn it fast. Drama schools can really only teach you so much about How to Be a Stage Manager and there are many tricks and helpful hints which you gather along the way. And I truly think I am yet to do a job where I learn absolutely nothing. Even if the only thing that I do discover is that I am completely useless at papier mache and that casually commenting to an actor that they probably won’t be called till next week because they ‘don’t really say much’ will cue a One Man Campaign of Hate and Vitriol which will last for the duration of the five week run.

My current play will be ending shortly so as I start to eye up the set and decide what might be worth keeping (a fake Louis Vuitton handbag and a vintage Scrabble set – merry christmas mum) I am starting to really think about what I have learnt.

And I have learnt a lot.

First of all there is all the Actually Quite Educational stuff. In this instance, Greek Tragedy. I rather lost interest in secondary school and all I can really remember is photosynthesis (engrained in my brain forever) and wondering if the purchase of a ludicrously expensive Helly Hansen sailing jacket would instantly make me more popular. Many years on and I am pretty happy to report that the Helly Hansen thing was one teenage craze which I did not partake in. Seriously girls. I know we lived in close proximity to the River Mersey but what were you expecting, a flash flood?

So to do these plays and learn about Helen of Troy and the Trojan horse and the tragedy of baby Astyanax is all pretty cool and these details are ones which I can try and retain for future pub quizzes in a bid to look worldly, intelligent and Smart In A Sexy Way. As satisfying as it is to win a much-needed point for your quiz team, nobody is ever overly impressed when you can name every single Big Brother winner and put them into chronological order. And nobody wants to go home with you.

However, if you can confidently confirm to your whispering team mates that it was Paris who Helen eloped with (‘No Ben, it wasn’t Hector, he was the other son. Honestly….’) , you are hopefully going to gain respect, gratitude and the possibility that you have convinced your team mates that you are something other than a thirty year old woman with no A-levels, no degree and just an encyclopaedic knowledge of Heat magazine. My cripplingly low self-esteem about my lack of superior and intellectual knowledge has made me an avid and eager student in the rehearsal room.

Then there is all the prop stuff I have learnt on this show.

This play has been a bugger to prop. As I sat hunched over the script the week before rehearsals, casually scanning the text but scrutinising  everything in italics, (that’s what everyone does right?) my heart started to sink and I began to see the next few weeks stretch in front me; a seemingly  eternal abyss of fruitless Ebay searches, pleading phone calls and Merlot-infused evenings of despair.

But, as always, I made my list and tried not to get too overwhelmed by my lack of budget and the extensive catalogue of desired items. There were a few props which I knew were in other theatre’s prop stores. But how to get them? Well, here is a Lesson I learnt several years ago.

Booze Gets You Props.

So for the price of two decent bottles of Chablis and a couple of Smirnoff Ices, I managed to borrow two hospital beds, an antique wheelchair, several army blankets, a whole load of medical equipment, a rare whiskey bottle and an AK47.

And it was whilst borrowing the AK47 that I learnt my next lesson.

You Can’t Take Guns On The Tube.

Now obviously I wasn’t planning on strolling onto the Central Line, swinging my Topshop handbag and a lethal firearm with gay abandon. But with no transport budget and only a few tube stops to go, I decided to take the risk. My floral shopping trolley and a cleverly placed bin bag appeared to completely keep the gun from view and some internet research showed me what you are meant to do when carrying fake/prop/deactivated weapons.

You have to carry a letter.

So when I perkily skipped through the London Underground, smiling winningly at the staff and putting all my efforts into looking as innocuous as possible (I even put Dido on my iPod. No terrorists listen to Dido), I knew that the pink and green shopping trolley I pulled alongside me not only held a very large and threatening rifle, but also a note. And on this note (which was on headed paper) it clearly stated that the rifle I was carrying was indeed an AK47 but that it was deactivated and intended for theatrical purposes.

So that’s okay then.

I must admit that the protection of a letter left me feeling less than confident. Had I slipped and fallen on the escalator, my trolley tumbling before me and the offending weapon clattering out of its binbag and across the floor in front of startled commuters, I am not sure how much time the special forces and the station staff would give me to squeal ‘WAIT! I have a NOTE! On headed PAPER!’

Let’s be honest, if a blind man with a white stick can get accidentally tasered, then me and my menacing shooting iron wouldn’t stand a chance.

But the trip occurred with no events and the AK47 made it safely to the rehearsal room where all the boys took turns holding it and saying lines from action films because that’s what boys do.           

Something else which I learnt on this show is that it is okay to ask for help. More specifically, it is okay to turn to social media for help. This is something I have never really done before, but with my number of Twitter followers gradually growing and the majority of my Facebook friends being theatrical professionals, I decided to start putting out requests for help, advice and hard-to-find props. The responses were immediate and undeniably useful. I managed to obtain a brand new Iphone 5 box and many leads on various difficult objects.

It was incredible really. Moments after I had logged on and put my propping desires out into the ether, the suggestions came flooding back in. My iPhone beeped and buzzed with replies and offers. 

It was like Grindr but for props.

 Is this considered as cheating? I know that older stage managers say that we have it too easy these days with the internet (‘In my day you just had to prop a show using an out of date Yellow Pages, morse code and a compass!’) but is this something which we will see more often? Stage managers reaching out into their respective social media communities and asking for support? Or has this actually been going on for years and I have only just stumbled onto it, like Dropbox.

(That is another thing I have learnt on this show. The wonder of Dropbox.)

I was amazed by the responses that I got when I started to ask for help and was glad to see that the showbiz community is not too stuck up to offer advice to each other. I personally do not think it is cheating. Especially as I try and answer questions just as much as I enquire. It gives me a great sense of pleasure to go on Twitter and share the Things I Have Learnt;

‘The best fake blood? Pigs Might Fly by Nick Dudman. You’re welcome!’

‘Hmm. Try the Tricycle. I think they still have a couple of coffins. Good luck! ’

‘As you build up speed, keep your hand in a fist at the shaft and relax your throat. Enjoy!’

Those are just some of the little pearls of my acquired wisdom which I feel should be bestowed on others in order to enrich and ease their lives.

However, on this show I have learnt many things and if I talk about them all in the same detail that I have so far, then this blog will rattle on endlessly with no point or conclusion. So instead I am going to just do bulletpoints and list the Many Things I Have Learnt.

Okay. Here goes.

I have learnt that….

·         you can achieve a lot with Dirty Down spray, circular key-rings and a little imagination. And with these three elements an old Primark handbag strap can be easily transformed into a perfectly plausible AK47 shoulder strap.

·         when using office-style water- coolers, you need a completely new and un pierced cap each time you change the bottle. The company that provide the bottles only provide you with one cap per bottle so if you are planning on using one bottle many times, you need many caps. It is good to have this information early on when dealing with water coolers, and not just discover it the day before tech.

·         they sell water bottle caps on EBay. And they do next-day delivery.

·         when trying to get a water cooler to do something a water cooler is not meant to do, it is very easy to blow up the water cooler, make water gush everywhere (including into a plug socket) and therefore completely plunge an entire theatre into darkness.

·         my lighting designer is very good natured.

·         apparently ‘basic physics’ caused my water cooler to blow up. Interesting.

·         Troilus is the name of a character from Greek tragedy. It does not mean Without Troy.

·         when an actress needs to do full-on Boobs and Pubes nudity onstage, make sure that you do everything in your power to make sure she feels confident and comfortable.

·         making the aforementioned actress completely confident and comfortable may require rubbing body oil over the actress when she is completely naked.

·         it is okay to draw your own boundaries when rubbing body oil over aforementioned completely naked actress. If this includes saying the words ‘Okay, I will rub body oil into your bum but I am not going anywhere near your pubes’ then so be it.

·         Body Shop does very good body oil. Not too greasy and smells like rain.

·         stage blood washes out of everything easily except for my hair. Then it just congeals and takes a bucket of Herbal Essences conditioner to get it out.

·         having a reliable and supportive DSM is completely invaluable. Especially when it’s a two show day and you are dealing with heartache, a headache and the grim realisation that your black trousers are still not dry.

·         aforementioned actress doesn’t mind when I shyly but excitedly ask ‘what is Benedict Cumberbatch really like?’

·         Benedict Cumberbatch is apparently really lovely. I am so glad.

·         when an actress dislocates her jaw during a performance just stay calm, offer to stop the show and then watch in stunned disbelief while she relocates it before your eyes.

·         when a jaw is relocated it sounds like someone cracking their knuckles in jam.

·         the NHS is worryingly generous when lending out hospital beds.

·         trying to get five television screens under budget is incredibly difficult.

·         my flatmate and I don’t really miss watching television.

·         there are some things that I just can’t do. I cannot stop grapes falling off their stalk. This does not make me a bad person, a bad stage manager or a failure.

·         Marks and Spencers grapes usually stay on the stalk for quite a while. Tesco grapes do not.

·         one of my new favourite things is when aforementioned actress and I are the only two people backstage during the show and she puts ‘Dancing In The Dark’ on her iPhone so we can dance about. Sometimes she’s clothed. Sometimes she isn’t.

·         my job may be mental, demanding and exhausting but I never get bored.

·         I love my job.

But I learnt the last one ages ago.

 

 

 

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