Sunday, June 24, 2012

Self-Promotion Is Boring, Hangovers Are Not

I love rehearsing at the Royal Exchange. Partly mainly because it's across the road from a Pret-a-Manger and I enjoy spending all my money on their cheese sandwiches and Love Bars then revel in the guilt and self-loathing that is hot on greed's heels.

Also, though, it's a gorgeous building, and all over the place are pictures of Important Actors From History doing Proper Plays, which were clearly put up in the seventies and never changed. Ben is rehearsing with Cheryl (who is directing) in a larger room, while Dan and I are hidden away, working on the music. The room they've found for us is at the end of a long corridor, lined with shelves of costume, sewing machines, and boxes overflowing with intriguing-looking theatrical delights. Pinned to walls are pictures of the casts of the current shows that are running, as well as lists and notices saying interesting things like REMEMBER: DO NOT STEAM CORSETS. At one end of the corridor is a room full of washing machines and ironing boards, with boxes of hangers and rails draped in unexpected items - ten neatly-pressed flannel dressing gowns, an array of peasant blouses, dozens of satin skirts. I caught a glimpse the other day of a brightly-lit room full of workbenches, where people were hard at work, perched at the humming sewing machines. I wanted to sneak in and ask questions. What are you making? Do you like it here? Please can I have one of those satin skirts? But I didn't.

The show goes up on Thursday. You can come! Here it is.

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I am slightly hungover due to a hen party last night, which was excellent fun, combining wine, pizza and dancing. Someone had brought some Girls' Night Out Dare Cards, which ranged from general weirdness ("Crawl under a table and grab the ankles of a stranger!') to borderline sexual assault ("Walk up to a guy as if you are about to talk to him. Just as you walk past, turn around, slap him on the bottom, say "looking good, looking good" and walk off"). Mine said "Go and kiss a strange man! Then tell him you did it for a dare! Room for flirting with this one..." The italics are theirs. Needless to say I did not do the dare. Snog a stranger! Then insult him! This is called flirting! Enjoy!

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My hangover is making me think strange things. In Asda just now I was standing inspecting the olive selection, when a girl standing nearby looking at some other pickled things started, very quietly, to sing along with the song that was playing over the radio. I joined in, loud enough so she could hear. In my head she was going to notice, smile and we would enter a full game of Supermarket Karaoke, which would lead to everyone in the shop careening down the aisles, singing at the top of their voices, juggling fruit and dancing in the freezer section. Unfortunately what actually happened was that she gave me the smallest of worried, sidelong glances and sharply moved away. Life can be so dull.

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Edinburgh looms. Yesterday Dan and I were taking a break from rehearsing, having a coffee and a chocolate treat in Pret. "This" I said to him between sips of grossly-overpriced soya latte "is exactly the sort of thing we cannot do in Edinburgh." We then discussed ways of not spending money (no food just drink, no going to see shows, robbery, etc) and concluded they were all totally ludicrous. It will be worth it, though, because it always is. Sophie, Lowri and my show is HERE, and Ben and Dan's show is HERE. We've got a flat that we're all staying in together, in which a strict policy of Girls Get Bathroom Priority will be firmly in place. I am feeling a tiny, teeny bit nervous about the whole endeavour.

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These little chunks of words separated by asterisks make it easy to not have to have some kind of thread in a post. But I sense it's a bit annoying to read. Maybe the whole thing is annoying to read. Like this: I AM DOING A SHOW AND ANOTHER ONE AND BLAH BLAH AREN'T I GOOD AREN'T YOU IMPRESSED. Oh well. Blame the hangover.

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I am now going to attempt a bold hangover dissipation technique known as eating chocolate biscuits and drinking tea. I have high hopes for it. Wish me luck. Happy Sunday.

5 Comments:

Anonymous Fiona said...

*******s make it like poetry.

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Blogger Jimmy Smith said...

This is called flirting! Enjoy!
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