Amateur plumbing? Nah. Time for a professional. Thankfully it was just a low potency alkaline that I got in my face, rather than one of the big nasty ones, or the 93% sulphuric I’ve been looking for. I expect I would’ve been more careful had I been actually using the hard stuff. But that doesn’t take away from the fact I got it all up my arm and on my cheek after a bout of overly vigorous plunging with the “clever” addition of plugging the overflow with a damp cloth to make a vacuum. My beauty is still pristine, never fear, it was just a splash. My arm itches though. It was merely the alkaline equivalent of a good strong vinegar. But it was also an object lesson.
I’m paying for someone to come over tomorrow morning and fix it for good. £80 he wants. Worth every penny if he sorts it out. I should’ve paid him in the first place and saved myself the price of a plumber’s snake, of two trips to London, of lots of alkali and of an itchy arm.
Right now I’m using being in town again to go on a fact finding mission. No matinee as there’s an exam in the hall, so I’m going to Brixton in order to test the commute without the time pressure. Working out where to stand on the platform for maximum efficiency. It’s completely OCD of me. But anything to reduce stress.
I’ve been disastrously unable to stop hammering myself with booze in this job. I get drunk immediately after the show and then talk complete idiocy in circles before falling over. It’s honestly getting to the stage where I’m contemplating going and talking to Bob. “We admitted we were powerless”. I hope the added pressure of rehearsal in the daytime will force me to stay on the wagon at least on weekdays. It’s that or collapse in a puddle at some point. I’d sooner not. But nature finds a way.
Life is good as well. The Tempest is a complete joy. The only thing I’m running away from is myself but ain’t that always the case? A few weeks of mindfulness will do me the world of benefit and will likely improve the quality of my work in both Twelfth Night and The Tempest, save me a small fortune, and make me less of a dick into the bargain. Triple win.
Now I’m on the train. 58 minutes to Oxford. One more show this week and I’ve got mates in the audience which I’m thrilled about. Then it’s my best mate’s fortieth celebration in North London and I’m hoping I’ll have enough fuel left in the tank later on tonight to catch her for some dancing, even if a bit of me wishes I could just stay in Oxford and have roast lunch and go punting with this lovely company.
It’s about to get busy. The train is full of children. Somebody has activated the emergency passenger alarm so we aren’t going anywhere fast…
And bless. Ed Milliband came to the show and was a highly enthusiastic audience member. He was so vigorous in telling me that my son wasn’t dead and that he’d seen him in a coffee shop that I had to tell him that as a king I was used to people flattering me with what I want to hear in the hope of advancement. Later on he got stuck into the ceilidh and at the end he genuinely led the standing ovation. I liked him. My character didn’t. He’s gone a bit grey now, but we could’ve had him in charge instead of the rotten bacon sandwich.