A pair of swans came and found me here in my sett during the matinée. I thought they were gonna get up on the bank and start messing with my props but they seemed content to just come right up to the edge and see if my boots had churned up any worms. I was half expecting to have them here again this evening, but they’ve moved on. Shame. They were a beautiful distraction.
It’s always different here. Calm and still tonight again, with fish jumping and the birds showing themselves off in the branches. It’s not going to rain for a change. I have trusted it and my umbrella remains at unit base. I just have a flask of Ayurvedic tea, a bag of mucky weasels and a few scraps of voice. One more show. Then I’m gonna jump in the car and mission to London, where I’m gonna fill up a hot bath with salt and lie there until it’s cold or I’m pickled. Then tomorrow I’m gonna keep my mouth shut as much as humanly possible. No unnecessary talking. Heaven for my friends. Hell for me.
The mud on my path has been churned into a foul soup of hungry muck. Audience members have started openly worrying more about their new trainers and less about defeating those pesky weasels. I probably have just about enough energy to refocus their attention, but I’m really starting to feel the wear now. At capacity I do my scene 120 times between Tuesday and Sunday. It might well hit capacity next week, as the local rags have been kind. It’s exhausting.
I’m beginning to remember what it is to be match fit but I’m still not there. My voice is doing exactly what it does after the first full week of Carol. Thankfully I’ve got Wolverine’s vocal folds – they recover brilliantly given just a touch of rest. After my London bath and a whole day down I’ll be at 100% again.
I’m meeting somebody about a ghost walk tomorrow, hence the trip to London. Might be a pleasant thing to do in the evenings on the approach to Halloween, and it’s unlikely to clash with anything else. Plus it’s for adults. I swear, of I see a child tomorrow I’m gonna bite it.
Showtime.
And now I’m briefly home. Bath is running. Plants are watered. Tomorrow I will clean the fish and go talk to people in Hampstead about a ghost walk. For tonight quiet peace, and a dreamy rest in the bed that used to be my grandmother’s in Jersey and now has been wrestled into my friendly boho Chelsea penthouse. Joy.
I was given a little origami butterfly by a small child. “My favourite type of army,” said Badger. So sweet. It’s the little things.
AlBarclay 