Sunday 27 November 2011

Keep Calm and Carry On - Week 18



   

         Spoiler alert - in this week's blog there will be an injury...
           
            Sunday was a big day. A big, big, big day. It was the day that I finally moved back to London. It was the day that another new chapter of my life began.
            It's been four months since I was last here. Four months since my mail has been addressed here, but a hell of a long time since I've had a 'home' here.
            I arrived, fresh from Worthing at about midday on Sunday and stood, smiling up at the place that I would be laying my hat for the next two years... To say that I was excited would be a massive understatement.

The Housemates
            I was welcomed into the house by my good friends and new housemates, Tom, Sal and Jen; elbow deep in work, getting their things into place, filling the cupboards, wardrobes and nooks, with everything that they could. I could only look on - as my stuff won't be arriving till the end of the tour - but offered my assistance whenever I could.
            Tea-duty it was...
            I also did a reccy of the neighborhood and was delighted to find that not only was there a plethora of lovely little shops nearby, but there was also a pub AND a wine merchant just around the corner. I was the epitome of a happy bunny.
            The rest of the afternoon and the following day were spent in the same way; scouting out household must haves and starting to make the place our place. And, aside from a strange dead person smell that I've had to tackle in my room, it all went relatively drama-free.
            It's quite creepy that in such a short amount of time, the place looks like we've been there for years. And - luckily - having an equal ratio of boys to girls, we don't run the risk of the place becoming too blokey or pink.
            Not that I could ever imagine that of Jen or Sal anyway!
            Tuesday was the first day that I was home alone.
            I decided to do a bit of food shopping and cook for the house. All the guys being at work gave me a good insight into what it'll be like when I'm back here - in the New Year. I don't mind the quiet during the day. Being conditioned to doing a show in the evenings - I'm a self-confessed night bird and as long as I get to be sociable when the light starts to fade, I function with my own company pretty well.
            When they got back to the house after a long day at work, we whiled away the evening lounging after dinner with a bottle of wine, candlelight and good chat.

            I will be honest - I wasn't ready to leave.
            I slept poorly and woke early on Wednesday morning. I repacked poor old, tired Tardis and hawled his heavy ass away from the warm, comfortable confines of the house and embarked on our journey to Buxton.
            Thankfully, Buxton is fucking beautiful. I've played the theatre twice before and both times have loved the experience. It's another Frank Matcham creation and - as such - it's always such a pleasure to perform in. It's also a well-run venue and the technical team had enjoyed a fluid get in and focus session.
            When all the cast had arrived, we got on with a line run in prep of the evening show. Aside from the odd mind freeze, it was pretty consistent. Again, it's a while since we've performed it so it's forgivable and I don't think anyone lost any sleep over it.
            The show itself was fairly solid. Doing a play that one has toured with is a bit like riding a bike for the first time in years. One 'never forgets' how to ride said bike - but the excellence in riding that one once had in youth, is founded in confidence. It seems to me that the first time that we have performed either play over the past 4 months - that first time is always tinged with a stain of trepidation.
            That all being said, I think that it was a good show. The audience certainly seemed to respond so and afterwards, we shared a bottle of champagne in the dressing rooms with a few of Shiv's friends and we FINALLY met Leo's lovely wife, Anne.
            And I can assure you Anne, he may call me Weasel, but we definitely call him worse.
            We then went to the pub for a nightcap, talked football and turned in for the night. Cuckoo managed to book a terrific little house for our stay here, which the two of us, Shiv and Ducky will all be staying in for the duration.




            On Thursday, there was little to do but prepare for the matinee and grab some food before the show.
            I wasn't very pleased with my performance. There was no reason that I can recollect for feeling so, just one of those irrational, personal irks that consume and irritate.
            I read in between shows and galvanized myself to do a better job in the evening show.            
            Thankfully, in my humble opinion, I think that I did. There was a group of A-level students in watching, who seemed to particularly identify/sympathise with Andrew, which made me - in turn - feel better about myself. It once again reminded me what a wonderful part Agucheek is and how fortunate I am to have had the chance to play him.

            Friday was a quiet day up until the late afternoon.
            We did little with the day as the rain gently dropped on the cobbled streets outside. The heating was turned up high, the lights dimmed and an afternoon of Mad Men ensued.
            When we finally pulled ourselves out from our hovel, we walked into town, to the Pavilion, beside the theatre to peruse around the Buxton Christmas fair. I didn't buy anything, but predictably the Duck did - purchasing one of the tackiest gifts that I have ever seen.
            Shaun - I don't want to poo poo your present, but it's total shit I'm afraid.
            We had a lovely crowd in for the evening show and got a taste of a real Northern audience - generous on laughs and up for a giggle. It's a shame really that we haven't been up north at all for the duration of the tour. With only Berwick left to play, it would have been nice to tour the country more extensively as I have done on others, but - hey ho - you get what you're given.
            After the show we - predictably - went for a few drinks and nattered away into the evening.
            Adrian (the Artistic Director of Black Eyed Theatre and one of the producers of George III) said to me when I saw him in Bracknell, that he sometimes reads the blog to remember what it's like to go out every evening partying. Mate - tomorrow I'll raise a glass for you. Enjoy.
            Saturday was eventful.
            Nothing much happened in the morning to warrant noting. We began the matinee performance in front of a lovely large audience who had turned up for an afternoon of fun and we took just as much delight in giving them what they'd paid for. The interval approached and -
            Uh oh.
           
            There was a flurry of commotion.
            I sat in my dressing room suddenly confused at the hubbub.
            I rose and made my way to the wings.
           
            Uh oh.

            Cuckoo was on the floor, surrounded by cast and crew.
            He lay perfectly still.
            What the fuck had happened.
           
            Rewind one minute earlier...

            The end of the first half was approaching fast. Shiv, shouted out the line, 'Quickly - run - RUN!' David responded, 'I'm running!' Al began chasing, he leaped over Lucy who as per usual is flat on the floor, came back down to earth and  - wait a minute.
            According to the Cuckoo, when his feet hit the ground, something in his back went and as he managed the last few steps off the stage, his legs gave way underneath him and he hit the deck.
            For all those who are concerned I should perhaps make clear straight away that the Cuckoo IS OK and that he (despite a very uncomfortable day) was able to complete both shows and the audience would have been none the wiser. At points, we were seriously worried about him - his face at times turned a sickly talcum white on numerous occasions - and, after I carried him off in the fireman's carry I thought that he was going to faint, but he soldiered on and I am proud to say that he did a better job than many others would have done in his position.

            I remember reading an article once in praise of the theatre actor's code of conduct: 'an unrivalled passion, belonging to a team, strident standards and a deep rooted hatred in the confines of health and safety.'

            Sometimes in this world, we have to go above and beyond the call of duty.

            Cuckoo, mate, I hope you know that you've ticked that box and we all respect you very much for it.



            Ps. But if you think for one second that I'm going to be waiting on you all week and carrying your stupid big bird bags...

Sunday 20 November 2011

Celebrate Good Times - Week 17




            Bump.

            That was the sound of me hitting the ground at the start of the week.

            After a day of pacing the house, waiting to hear back from my audition, I received the call that every actor dreads.
            "I'm really sorry Weasel, it's a no this time..."
            The Cuckoo had called me ahead of the 'official call' to my agent, out of courtesy to halt the agonising waiting game. It's not easy for anyone to break bad news, let alone a friend and appreciated his kindness very much.
            I don't want to dwell too much on the event as it was a confidential matter and as with all castings there is a certain ebb and flow that demand privacy and sensitivity. What I would say, is that the man who pipped me to the post is hugely deserving and someone that I greatly admire - and I hope he knows that.

            So, hit taken, things roll.



           For people outside of the business, it is difficult for them to understand a world where rejection is a common pastime. For those that do belong to it, it's the norm and very difficult to communicate how one deals with it.
            For myself, I've a pretty thick skin. One has to.
            Bizarrely, when I received the news, I almost felt liberated. The end of the tour is now approaching; I'm moving back to London to a new house after a 4 month absence and I have NO IDEA what the new year will now hold. As terrifying as it is, it's also incredibly exciting. The possibilities are endless and as likely as it is that I could be unemployed for months on end, I could just as likely land a wild card audition score a two-year contract at the RSC!
            What I've learnt from my experience as an actor (puny though it is), is that there is no magic route - no set series of directions to a successful career. It's one of the things that often is the cause of actors throwing in the towel: the unknown being just too vague a lifestyle. For myself - at least at the moment, I'm still young enough and responsibility-free enough to be able to cope with it and - dare I say it - quite like the uncertainty.
            It would be a lie to say that I wasn't disappointed to hear that I was unsuccessful at the audition. Personally, I don't understand going up for something unless you wholly believe with all you might that you're going to get the job. If you don't invest heart and soul, what's the point in turning up? It's like the old boxing mantra: If you can't see yourself raising the belt at the end of the bout, then you've lost before you've even begun. It may mean that the knock one takes if failing to achieve is greater, but if it raises ones possibilities, then surely the emotional uppercut is worth taking.
Spot the hole punch...
            That's just how I feel anyway.
            So, blow taken, I got on with things and started packing my possessions in pre-preparation for my move to the big smoke.
            I won't be shifting the stuff till the end of the tour, but want it to be ready and waiting for when the time comes around.
            Tuesday and Wednesday were pretty obsolete. I relaxed, watched films and catalogued anything that I'd missed off my initial list for things bound to London.            
            On a very grey and dismal Thursday morning, I left for Worthing. My Dad drove me to the train station and I confided in him that I needed to find the energy from somewhere to do a show that evening, as the foot has been off the gas for a week and a half.
            That's the only trouble about gaps in a tour; you lose the momentum. And - what with it being so close till the end of the gig - it feels a bit like a footnote, as opposed to the final gripping chapter. I'm sure I'll be feeling far differently once I jump the first show hurdle, but I'd be a liar if I didn't voice my misgivings.            
            So I rolled and bounced my way to Worthing - detouring via London - leaving the green of the country for the sparkle of the city. I'm ecstatically happy and excited to be moving back to the Capital. I've had the break from it that I needed, but I'm hungry for it's energy and keen to get comfortable returning home to the same place every evening.
            When I finally arrived in Worthing, I managed to typically wind up at the wrong theatre. I'd already been excused for arriving late, as we had planned to meet for a line run just after I'd secured my train tickets.
            Everyone was on fine form - what was also great to see, was that everyone seemed genuinely happy to see one another.
            The line run sped along nicely and before long it was over.
            We did little before the show other than catch up and explore the theatre. The Connaght is a strange, 1920's refurbed cinema that is recent years was converted into a theatre - in fact - later on in the interval of the show, the safety curtain was dropped in and movie trailers were played on a projector; a very unique experience I can tell you.


            The show was fine. Good in fact considering it's been a while since we last performed it. It was the same experience that I remember of doing it before after a bit of a break; like being in one of those dreams where you're fighting and it feels like you're under water - punches taking ages to land and the enemy far nimbler.
            Just me? Ok.
            After the show we very briefly saw Ducky's parents and gave them our love before plodding to the nearby pub. We didn't stay long as everyone seemed pretty knackered from the journey down and turned in earlier than usual for a quiet night in.

            On Friday, I spent the day doing admin. I swear touring life sometimes revolves around cafes, booking digs and paying for bloody trains.
            It's done with now though which means that in theory I shouldn't have to think about it now for the rest of the gig.

Random poster in the dressing room
            Feeling hermit-like, I arrived at the theatre early, hoping to see familiar faces. Luckily, Partridge and Ducky were in, which pacified my boredom till the start of the show. We had another decent crowd in which was good. I also topped my pb back-stage shenanigan by scaling a ladder, bending over and dropping my trousers for when Shiv looks out through the dining room door mid-scene. I wish that I could have catalogued all the things that have gone on over the course of the tour; because it's as much about keeping things fresh and fun offstage as it is when you're on.
            Just be sure never to mix the two...
            After the show we went for a few token drinks in the local Whetherspoon's - Cuckoo completely un amused - and did our best to have a conversation over the din of drum and bass music coming from a speaker directly over my head. We soon got bored of the effort and called it a night.
            Saturday was a day of two shows and so - by definition, there wasn't much time for anything sociable. A few of Shiv's friends were in seeing the matinee, whom we went for a quick drink with afterwards which was about the highlight of the afternoon.

For Chris and Emily

            Midway through the evening show, we found out some brilliant news involving our long absent director, Chris which was probably the highlight of our week:
            He's getting married!
            To say that I'm happy for him would be an understatement and would just like to take this moment to say my personal congratulations to who is a very close friend. I'm sure that you and Em are going to be even happier together than you are now - and can't wait to sing at your wedding...
            I'm thinking, 'Unforgettable'...
            Backing singers...
            The Royal Philharmonic...

            They owe me a favour. 

Sunday 13 November 2011

A Healthy Vanity - Week 16


And the award for the shortest blog of the tour goes to...
           

            Technically, this week hasn't been part of the tour. We've been on a break for the past seven days and I've spent the bulk of my time in Norfolk, whiling away the hours doing virtually nothing till provoked.
            It's Remembrance Sunday today and am planning, with the family to go for a meal. The day is always tinged with extra doses of melancholy. One, for the obvious thoughts shed for those that lost their lives, two, for the wonderful time that myself and 'C company' had whilst touring Journey's End in tribute to the Great War and thirdly, for the loss of my Grandfather. He died on the 11th of the 11th, 15 years ago and am always prompted to thinking of his puffy red face when I see the poppies, pricking through the grey clothes of winter time.

Dad and his mates (third from the right)

            I was particularly moved this week whilst sitting with Dad and his friends at the Golf Club enjoying a few drinks when one of the men said, "Oh, Dale, it's a special day isn't it?" To which the room raised their glasses and quietly spoke.
            "To lost friends."
            It was humbling seeing them there, normally unsentimental crotchety old gits (Dad included) reflecting and spending a moment to remember their old mate who sadly left us so suddenly.
            Anyway...
            Monday was audition day. I'd kipped on my mates floor the night before and had slept all of two hours; just the kind of restful sleep that one needs before a big day. I got up early, finally admitting defeat and got to work with the scenes that I'd been asked to look over for the meeting.
            The audition itself went well. I'm yet to hear back whether I was successful or not - always the worst part of the job - but I don't think that I could have done anymore than I did. The fingers will just have to stay crossed for a little while longer...
            As I said, the week here in Norfolk has been wholly enjoyable. I went to an old, old, OLD friend's engagement party yesterday, which was terrific, and the day before had gone out with Dad and his mates for a meal and drinks. We ended up at the casino - always the mark of a good night - and came away with a ton more than I went in with! Lovely jubbly.
            I'm at a loss what else to write this week.
            I went to see my Grandparents on Wednesday. They both have dementia and it was the first time that my Nan did not realise who I was.
            I was sad.
            I had an afternoon on Thursday catching up with my cousin and her husband who are 3 weeks away from giving birth to their first child.
            I was happy.
My Sister, Tayla bakes a cake

            I went for an Indian last night at THE BEST Curry house in England, 'Planet Poppadom' which also serves as a second home to me. We've had some of the most incredible evenings in there and am always reminded of some of our more bizarre traditions. The place is home to 'Norfolk's Biggest Marrow' - a hollowed out vegetable which we routinely pass around the table chanting "It's Norfolk's biggest marrow, it's Norfolk's biggest marrow, na na na na! Na na na na!"
            How such a thing got started I can't remember, but as with most things in our circle of friends, there's very little rhyme or reason to anything.

            I read an article in the Equity magazine this morning, interviewing Michael Grandage about his career and his decision to leave the Donmar Warehouse. The most enlightening and encouraging thing that he spoke about was auditioning:
           
            "I don't like the term audition. It's a correct word and it's the only one we've got, but I prefer to say 'let's have a meeting'. I think this takes away the curse of feeling that you have to stand alone on stage delivering lines..."

            He goes on...
                       
            "What I admire in an actor is fearlessness, a good memory and a healthy vanity."

            Now where's my moisturiser darling?


Sunday 6 November 2011

Oh I do like to be beside the Seaside - Week 15



Knowing that our time at Moreton Hall was done and dusted, it took us all a little longer than usual to drag ourselves from bed.
            I woke at my usual earlier Sunday hour and sat up in bed for a few hours writing and catching up on the week that had flown past in a blur of autumnal swirl. I tucked up the covers, close under my chin, enjoying the light burn of the cold air fighting against the warmth of the arms of my skin until I finished all that I needed to do and voyaged downstairs to complete the last of the finishing touches.
            Gill decided to pick the winning raffle that had been taken over the last week and was agog to find that my Uncle Peter had won!
            He had kindly said when he picked his numbers, that if he won, to pass the winning money on to the bar's profits, so Cuckoo stood on, with a very wide grin on his face.
            Mole had a horse of his, racing on the TV, so we all sat in the snug and watched the event as it unfurled:
            'Swing-Alone' was the name of the horse and we watched on as he bucked and kicked as all the other jockeys had long ago mounted. Eventually he calmed, having had more airtime in five minutes than a regular in a nightly soap opera and was rushed into the starting gates in the blink of an eye. The gates opened and off he ran.
            He started off amazingly well. Too well in fact. He left all the other contenders in his wake and had his head in front of the crowd. By the final push though, he had run out of steam and we all looked on as he gently drifted from 1st, to second to last. Mole seemed quite happy though, so we didn't feel too bad about enjoying a little giggle.
            Afterwards, we left the house and went for lunch.
            It was the same place that Al, Tom and I had visited a few weeks ago and we were not to be disappointed. The food was wonderful and we toasted a great week in Bury and a lovely stay with Gill and Mole in Dovedon Hall.
            In the evening, I lit a fire and we all sat, warm and cosy whiling away the evening in front of the TV.
            With my eyes, square from the night before, I woke on Monday morning and repeated my almost ritualistic packing of the Tardis. Strangely, he seems to have lost weight - I noticed, heaving him downstairs - either that, or I'm getting stronger..?
            Tardis is getting lighter.
            We said goodbye to Bury and hugged and thanked Gill for being such a wonderful host. After a week of a house FULL of actors, I'm sure it'll be quite a nice thing for her to have her home back to herself!
            And don't worry Gill - I'll make sure the Cuckoo calls the AA.
            We pulled out of Dovedon Hall, whiled our way down the country lanes and detoured to Newmarket for a spot of lunch with the Mole and a friend of his. Geoffrey, is an old chum of Michaels and, after seeing the show on Friday evening, was keen to discuss with Al how to help the company and secure some outside funding. He was a fascinating man, dancing between wickedly infectious smiles and instantaneous stillness - like a puppet being thrust into life. He offered some very sound advice and between the Mole and himself, I hope that they can find something or someone to help out. A Cuckoo only has two wings after all...
            Having eaten, we thanked Geoffrey for lunch and said goodbye to Mole, sure that we would be seeing him again soon, in Buxton. He is yet to see Twelfth Night and - seeing as he played Maria when he was younger - I'm sure he's keen to see the part done without a penis.
            Speedy, you'd better be on top form...

            We hit the road again and passed the time listening to music. Music, which (thank God), was from my ipod as opposed to Al's. You see, the Cuckoo has, without a doubt, the worst taste in music that I have EVER come across. It's almost the stuff of Legends. To give an example, when playing Journey's 'Don't Stop Believing', the Cuckoo said:
            "This is Glee."
            "No it's not." I replied.
            "Yes it is." He insisted.
            "No it's NOT." I demanded. "This is the ORIGINAL. The one that Glee ripped off."
            "Ah." He conceded. "Glee's is better."
           
            Another example would be this; I asked both Shiv and the Cuckoo, which musical act - alive or dead - they would choose to see.
            Shiv - Van Morrison.
            Cuckoo - The Corrs

            I think I've made my point.

            As we rolled into Eastbourne, pitch black at 5 O’clock, I found it difficult to believe that it's been two and a half months since we were last here. Even typing it, I find my face screwing up into a paper ball at the thought of it. Can it really be possible that we only have a month left on the road?
            I sought out my digs and was pleased to see that it was a cute, ramshackle place ten minutes from town. What's more, I'm sure that I must have set a new record for 'number of digs stayed in on tour, with cats' - in this one alone, there are three of them!
             I spoke briefly to my landlady, Romana and then left to enjoy an evening being wined and dined by Ms. O'Kelly and Mr. Whatley.
            (Shiv cooked and Al presented.)
            After a gorgeous dinner, we flicked on the box and watched Love Actually. Lovely stuff.
            When I got back to my digs, I was perturbed to find two of the cats, curled up on my bed.
            They didn't remain there long, I assure you and once they were 'removed' I curled up in bed for a good kip before the next day's return to Twelfth Night.
            When I was about to leave the house the next morning, I came into brief contact with my landlord's son, a recently redundant professional dog walker, who had broken his leg...
            I shit you not.
            He was knee deep in a computer game when I saw him, pumping a few rounds of ammunition into his cybernetic foe. "Hi." he said and instantly returned his attention to the pixilated bloodbath.
            I went into town to search for a book shop.
            The Original Theatre Company's upcoming production of Our Country's Good is just around the corner and I'm one of the lucky few, being auditioned for it - so I need a script to take a look over. However, the ONE Waterstones that I found had nothing but Shakespeare and the less said about W.H.Smith the better.
            I conceded defeat and ordered it online instead, multi-tasking whilst eating a pizza on my lonesome in a little Italian place.

            We had a run of the play before the evening's show. It's been an age since we did it last, so it seemed the wisest thing to do. It was typically bad and - in honesty - exactly what we needed to get the blood pumping for the evening performance.                        
            I went for ANOTHER meal prior to the start of the show and felt particularly guilty about having spent so much money on so little in just one day. But - what the body wants, the body wants...
            The evening show was brilliant. It was so nice to kick off the stint in Eastbourne with a good'un - it gave us all confidence and the faith that we were after, having not performed it in so long. We enjoyed complimentary drinks with the Friends of the Theatre afterwards, who gushed about the show and then we all went on to the Cavalier, where I FINALLY completed a personal promise to take a picture of 'The Fish'.
            Yes, here it is, the stuff of touring legend, the one fish that all on its own breaks any number of RSPCA regulations.
            I manned the jukebox for a good hour or so, until the Cuckoo took over and things took a distinct turn for the worse. Luckily there was no Bwitched available, but we were instead subjected to back-to-back Westlife tracks. Bad big bird.
            Wednesday, we were in at noon for the matinee. I was actually relishing the chance to try out the show again, so didn't mind too much at having to give up the afternoon. Thankfully, they were a really responsive crowd, which made it all worthwhile. New things are being found, moments are being added and altered. We are getting a chance to really explore the play, just as we have with See How They Run and I must admit that I'm giddy with it. It is SUCH an AMAZING play - just when I think that the show has settled and we have decided on the correct path of playing, something changes and turns my entire perception of it on its head. It's a play that just gives and gives and gives. Funny, sad, infuriating, melancholic, euphoric - it's everything and more.
            Psyched with the success of the matinee, I was disappointed to realise a flaw in our original plan to continue where we left off, with the matinee swim club. For those of you that don't remember, when we were last here in Eastbourne (summer) we had insisted on going for an afternoon dip in the sea in between shows on matinee days. We had also promised ourselves that when we returned - despite it verging on winter time - that we would continue said tradition. What we hadn't taken into consideration, was the light. Or rather, the lack of light. Yep, swim time came and we realised that it was pitch black.
            "We went in when it was dark once before." Said the Cuckoo.
            "Yes," I replied, "when we were totally tanked."
            So, alas, matinee swim club was not to be.
            Instead I went for dinner with Arthur and fell to coffee to spur me like the sea did before.
            When I got back to the theatre, a great review for the show had come in from What's On Stage, who had seen the show the previous evening. With confidence pulsing and energies at a high we leapt into the evening show and hit the hard concrete at the bottom of the pool.
            The audience were small. Small and quiet. Very quiet. Comedy is a traumatic thing to do when there is no response. And unlike tragic moments, which silence is expected - to wait for a laugh that doesn't come is a debilitating thing.
            My neuroses returned.
            After the show we licked our wounds with a drink.
            Or two...
            On Thursday morning, I read aloud in the bath. I find that it's near on impossible to properly enjoy reading a play without being able to hear the words. That being said, it means that it takes me forever to get through one as I read, re-read and analyse every other sentence. I was also quick to stop when I heard my landlady return with her daughter who were mid-way through a blazing row. Time to escape.
            So, I went to the theatre, I ate a simple lunch and set to work. The stage was free and - along with the safety curtain being down - it made for a nice little hideaway. I just hope the Tannoy wasn't on...
            No one teaches you how to do a good audition. Much like the first day of rehearsals, you arrive and meet a room of people you don't know, stumble through a play you may have barely read and strive to impress. All in one meeting. The same can surely be said for auditions.
            The only difference is that in a rehearsal, one learns what is good and bad. The good stuff is kept and the bad stuff is lost.
            In an audition - you have no idea.
            In fact, the only time when you know that you've done good is if you're offered a job!
            I, therefore always try to put in as much time as possible in preparing for the day as possible. It may mean learning the odd passage here and there that hasn't been asked for, but at the end of the day; you only get one shot.
            So, I spent a day in darkness, pacing and tittering over and over again until I was happy. I've three scenes to prepare and three days till the audition so, in my mind, that's one a day.
            When the company started to arrive I was surprised to see that it was pitch black outside. They were also soaking wet from the rain that had been pouring down, which I, had avoided!
            It wasn't our best show in the evening. There were a few technical glitches, which irritated things, and I didn't feel that I'd done a particularly good performance, which is always frustrating to know.
             After the show, we were cordially invited to chez Shiv and Al, for an evening of drinks and nibbles. We all had a great time and apart from a very poorly Neil (Leo's alter-ego) all the cast were present.
            I write this passage still quite drunk, so it must have been a good night though am still wondering why my jeans smell so strongly of Gin?
            Any thoughts...?
            I woke early on Friday and repeated the same day as before; the theatre, script work, the play.
            By the time the show came around I was a bit zombified - having had little to no human contact all day.
            I decided to do something that I haven't done in a long time...
            A warm up.
            That's right, R. D. King did a vocal warm up before the show. And, I must admit, it paid dividends. I would even go as far as to say that I think it was the best show, as Aguecheek that I've done. The lines felt fresh, new and zippy and, what is more, when one person starts to feel that way, it often has a knock on effect with the rest of the cast.
            By the end of the show, I was cream crackered and wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and surrender to sleep. Etiquette however meant that I went to the pub for a nightcap.
            Who'd want to be an actor?


             Saturday was a day of two shows. The day is a bit of a blur for me as I now write this on Sunday having had little to no sleep.

            I DO remember eating for one last time in our favourite restaurant, 'Pomodoro e Mozzarella' and going for a nice long walk along the sea front. I've really enjoyed being back in Eastbourne. It's been an utter JOY having the opportunity to really delve into the depths of Twelfth Night and I don't think that it would be unfair to say that the show has improved in so many ways, having had a week to explore it in a way that we haven't had the time to do so before. We've now got a week and a half off until we start back in Worthing with See How They Run.
            I can't believe how quickly the tour has gone.            
            I'm now in Stratford. I'm sat next to my half-naked, ample fleshed, alcohol-stinking mate, about to enjoy a day in London with a few life-long friends before journeying back to Norfolk tomorrow night.
            It's the final stint.
            The last leg...

            I'm a bit sad about it to be honest.