Month: September 2024

I’m in my little cottage on Waterside.

This morning… well this afternoon, I woke up and quickly established that my lenses were still in. Clawed them out and made a breakfast hamburger for the bread and grease of it all. Finished doing something that might be described as packing, if you were inclined to be positive. Things were certainly put into a case. I also brought up the 10kg of rice from my birthday party. Birthday rice is nice. “Every time you have rice you’ll think of us,” said the ladies from the lady flat and frankly that’ll keep me smiling for a long time.

Then I got in the car and picked up two passengers and we drove to Stratford. I didn’t tell them I couldn’t wear my lenses, as people worry and I can see fine until it gets dark. It was great all the way until we were in the little sleepy town, and then I was really having to concentrate as it was dark dark dark. Couldn’t see a fucking thing. Still, we got there fine and now I’m in my cottage.

I think I slept here once before, over twenty years ago, in this bed. Kesty had this cottage when she was doing Lion Witch and Wardrobe. We drove up for press night to support and I had full on alcohol poisoning after trying to match a septuagenarian O’Toole drink for drink at The White Cube. Scott drove, I occasionally yarked conversationally out the window. There was a bunch of Guildhall friends in the cast of it – it was a pleasant starting time for our year group. I sat at the back for the matinee, occasionally exiting to discreetly spasm. I ended up having to sleep a few hours in this bed after it while they did the evening show. Recovering myself so I could show up at the press night party afterwards looking like a human being, and get back on the crazytrain. We were all in our twenties. That sort of thing was possible.

But now I’m back in this bed again. It’s a windy night and I’m not having to shout into the porcelain every twenty minutes. The heating is on and I think I might dry out overnight but I’m immediately happy and comfy here. The WiFi password doesn’t work, but phone is fine. I’ll settle in here and get on with some joyful work. Who knows how many old friends have slept in this bed… how many curious characters… Exposed beams in the ceiling, there is a whole bath and actually the ceiling is high enough that I’m not gonna brain myself.

It’s already past midnight though. The wind is whipping the skylight and I’m tucked up warm and happy. Sleep will be easy tonight.

I’m sitting with Shama and Emma and it’s half 2 in the morning and it doesn’t feel like this conversation is ending anytime soon so I’m starting writing now.

Alanis Morrissette. nineties music. funny how

nope things happened that thoughtline died

4:37

I’ve just said goodbye to the last guest. I’m only half packed.

What a night. I didn’t want it, in the end. I really wasn’t in the mood. Tired, whatever. Done with it. But there it was, an opportunity to be with people who have been part of this absurd journey so far. The people who came were absolutely the people I needed to celebrate for my fiftieth. People who opened thought doors. Old weird friends. I got a kilo of rice out of the ladies from the lady flat at Sprite, and it’ll be happyrice up in Stratford. They know how I like to eat in self catered digs. That’s my next few years of Thai curry sorted.

But. It’s ten to five. That’s posting time. How am I supposed to finish this? I can barely keep my eyes open. I’ve been careful to limit the booze. Still a long night though. To give myself any chance of rational packing, I’ll call it s night now and see what sleep feels like. Got to drive tomorrow as well. yuk

More restlessness and head noise. I think getting out of town will help me level. I’m generally feeling a bit wonky at the moment, but like as not it’s just the change of seasons and this perpetual cold. We had a huge temperature drop this morning, and the gods saved it for the last day to drench me as I cycled in. I used to cycle to Guildhall back in the day, from Fulham, so I’ve got the waterproof trousers, but I didn’t put them on. Pre rehearsal ball kicking was done with half the lads in the room putting up with soaking wet trousers.

A good final day, and I’ll miss that regulatory of Clapham and the Forest bikes, the ease of the home base, the routine of the bath and familiar wind down into sleep, or the attempt at it. I’ve used all my minutes with Forest, just slightly prematurely as I’ve one more journey to make tomorrow, across the river to Culvert Tyres where Bergman is waiting with his shiny new wheels and wipers. They’ve been a good investment, especially considering the weather. I’d do that again.

A bit of a party tomorrow, nothing too crazy, after all I’m fifty. The flat is crowded with stuff and I’m halfway through packing for my time away so we will have to take things as they come. There should be enough chairs and if it gets busy we could go to the park if the weather turns good again. It’s hard to predict it right now.

And once again I’ve left it ages to write, got knackered, put my head down and remembered I haven’t done it yet. I might be well served to rejig the writing time, as this routine is out of the ordinary for me and my systems are getting spun out.

A peaceful evening, where I finally got round to Kondoing my underwear. Threw away a load of socks and pants. Wasn’t necessarily a proper Shinto fascist as if I only kept underwear that sparked joy I’d be going commando most of the week. But dumped a load of tattered, ragged or mismatched things and put the rest into my case for Stratford. A sojourn into clarity, but I’ve still got tons of clothes I literally never wear. The only things that get constant heavy duty are my T-shirts, and the rehearsal photos came back with me wearing one of my beloved old ones with massive holes in it. I know it’s about sentimental attachment, but an outsider might just think I’m a slob. Hey ho.

The last day in Clapham tomorrow and it feels like it’s gone very quickly all of a sudden. There’s a lot in a five act play. Every day has been full but still we have just started. I guess that’s why these plays have survived. They are rich, layered things. Different productions bring different shades to the fore.

I’m sleepless again and it’s late. Forgot to write this and then just as I thought I was going to drift I remembered with a jolt. Could do it tomorrow morning but I’m happier with the idea of rolling out of bed straight onto a Forest bike and into the song call. I might even lay out some clothes.

Cat related practicalities mean that it is likely we won’t be collecting in time. I’m off sooner than it feels like, and will probably stay up on the weekends as it’s all part of the adventure of it. Time is moving fast. Got to get to sleep as well. Tomorrow is act 5 which is most of my content. A last opportunity before Stratford to make sense of this guy I’m playing in the context of this show we’re making.

It’s a lovely group of people. London rehearsals tend to mean you don’t go out after with the cast just because everyone has homes to go to, so we will probably get to know each other better once we are out of town. I managed to get Bergman into his MOT in time so I’ll work out how to get him back tomorrow and sort out tax in time. Full car up to Stratford, three passengers and luggage… Which reminds me, I’ll need to pack.

Restlessness kept me up late and noisy head. I’ve had some emergency actifed and hopefully that’ll take me down to rest in time to get the hours in. Much to do. Packing, washing, tidying, and securing all the Othello work in time for things to get serious up in Warwickshire. Bring it on.

The Ivy Asia really has got nonsense food down to a fine art. They gave me the most remarkable birthday meal. I hadn’t even really noticed how The The Ivy crept into my neighborhood, in the old Henry J Bean, where teenage Al might have been found dancing the night away opposite Pucci Pizza. Now they’ve tricked it all up in their unique way, even down to the extremely odd fake samurai standing at one of the urinals who says “konichiwa” when you stand next to him.

I didn’t really know what to expect but it all kept coming, with good company and good conversation and good red wine. Having been off that stuff it took me by surprise a little bit. I certainly enjoyed myself but I can’t quite remember getting home. Despite a full belly.

Cake had been made for me and this morning I noticed that almost half of it wasn’t there any more which means I must still have had an appetite, or at least wanted something to soak up the booze before bed.

Cape work in the morning was revelatory. Not just swishing, but some really helpful thoughts about what it might mean to be a senator, comportment etc. I love the luxury of work with time for this detail. Sure, I enjoy just making quick decisions, learning the lines and putting the show on. But there’s delight in mining. Tim doesn’t do table work, which can get out of hand. But he does build the imaginative world. The magic and the logic are coming together now, the literal and the non literal. We are telling a story while pretending to be other people. The deeper the thinking goes the more fleshed out it’ll all feel. I’m still very much game on to be part of this even if it’s not as big a part as I might be used to playing with smaller companies.

Still, I was hungover again. Reluctant on the rainy morning bike. Just a bit slower and gummier than usual. Serves me right, but it was a luxurious spoiling of a birthday meal. Soon I’ll lose my evenings, so let’s grab these moments while they are still possible. Yum. And there’s still some cake left for this evening. It really is quite something.

Oh I was so happy with myself for getting myself into an early scene. “Lodovico should surely be in the senate in Venice,” I expostulated, but I was needed for my singing. So I proposed a version of the scene live where Lodovico sings and then comes into the scene. And it worked. So now I’m at least going to be visible to those many friends of mine who have never seen a Shakespeare and are going to end up watching Othello to see what the fuck this guy they know who sorts out the screws is gonna do with iambic pentameter.

But it means I’ll be in rehearsal first thing tomorrow morning. For “cloak work”

When I auditioned for Guildhall I was asked about what theatre I’d been to recently. I had been to Hong Kong and watched a group of dancers rehearsing a cape dance in a shopping mall. It had fascinated me to the extent that I’d watched it for hours. The director was a tyrant. The dance was relatively simple but the precision demanded was nigh on impossible to the extent I felt it was much more about the ego of the person demanding the precision than it was about how possible the precision was.

Watching and then later in class with Wendy I tried to be amazing at cloak. Halloween walks in a riding cape for years added to my activation. I know cape work. I’m very good at it.

Tomorrow, the morning after my fiftieth birthday, because I got myself into the scene, I’m called first thing to do “cape work” with the movement director for an hour before I have nothing else for the rest of the day.

You make your own fucking bed.

Still I’m thrilled. I’m in a scene I wasn’t in. I didn’t want to just show up at the end and be in a totally different energetic place.

But it means I’m off to bed. Drinks and food with friends tonight who I won’t see on Saturday. Friends on Saturday. If you are reading this and are wondering why you haven’t been invited it’s because I’m avoiding social media. You ARE invited if you can text me and ask me where and when. x

The evening is closing down, past the equinox, here at the time of year I’ve always earmarked as the official end of summer. There was a glorious big Dartmoor Warrior spider webbed over the doorway at work this morning. Araneus diadematus with a cross on its back. Orb weaver. Garden spider. Excellent efficient hoover of late season mosquitos. It was still there when I left as testament to the grounded nature of the current acting company. Too many groups of actors have someone who starts running around looking for attention when there’s just a wasp. Spiders make the daddy thing even bigger for the “look at me, there’s a wasp” crowd until someone has to take it away or murder it just for sanity, and then there’ll still be twenty minutes of “look at me there was a spider”. Either that lot didn’t notice it or that lot aren’t in the rehearsal room. Phew.

Still, that spider, hovering in the centre of the window web, is one of the two heralds of autumn to me. The other is the crane fly. Usually I see one of them first but this year the spider won the race, and the day before my birthday – too early dammit. But the days are getting shorter than the nights now. Once more Persephone is in Hades, and the world will mourn her absence. Light will fade. Rain will come. The cold. The cold.

My Forest bike month has been a most excellent investment. 40 minutes to rehearsal by public transport. 25 by car before you’ve parked and that’ll be forever pounds because this is London. 15 minutes on a Forest, so long as you’re prepared to be ruthless and pull it out from under anyone you think might be planning on renting the one you’re after. 30 quid for all the days I’ve needed and I’ll still have a couple of minutes in the bank. Sometimes you get a fucked one, as again this morning when the back wheel was flat, but I still used it to get to the next one. And it is still warm enough that it works beautifully.

People hate them, and indeed hate cyclists in general. Drivers because the rules are different, pedestrians because other people are annoying when you are in a crowded city. “You should watch out for my children!” “I did watch out for your child!” “No you didn’t.” That’s some guy who crossed in front of me and I waited for Izzy his timid daughter to cross in front of me too before I carried on. I probably should have left it there really, as a dismissive smiling “Oh just … go and fuck yourself” kind of loses any argument there might have been. As I continued the journey, any number of wittier less sweary comebacks occurred to me. He probably felt like an idiot for putting his child in danger and his shout was a confused expression of gratitude for my care, but I swore so now he can think I’m a yob while I know he’s a douche. insha’Allah. “Daddy doesn’t like cyclists. He goes all red and shouty.”

I’ve got an hour or so left before I’ve officially been on the earth half a decade. Christ. I’ll likely be asleep as it comes in. And now the winter comes.

I’m in my pajamas. I never got out of my pajamas.

“We don’t cook in this household anymore,” Brian announces, correctly. Just two days ago my downstairs neighbour, who is broke, offered to cook for us. “You get a lot of takeaways. I could cook for you.” “We are both very capable cooks, Christine. We are just being extremely lazy.” I think she wants the company and the ingredients. We are entirely after the convenience and the fact we can spend all Sunday in our pants.

Meanwhile my accountant shows me the reality of my tax return and I’m gonna be broke again in no time so I’d better start battening down the hatches. Today I can temporarily justify spending every penny I made from Hello Kitty on a Dishoom, but when the lucre runs dry I’ll look at that decision in a very different light.

This morning, before the Dishoom, I considered paying someone to cook something I am perfectly capable of doing myself. Breakfast is an easy cook, and easy to do well if you can be bothered to go to the shop. In Brighton maybe it’s nice to go out because cooking meat at Lou’s is off the menu. But here, in the place I’ve attached all my bad habits to? No need.

I’ve got a week before I go to Stratford. Just a week. I might be able to sort my life admin out, feed myself cheaply, tidy up a bit… It’s not very likely though, is it. Someone might want to stay in my room. They can’t if it’s like this. Oh and there’s a cat coming on Tuesday. I’m sure she’ll add a degree of unknown to proceedings. Important to have cats around though. She’s a pedigree breeding mum that’s just been retired. Black as night. It’ll be good to have some company in dreams.

I had the day off I wanted. Nothing happened, I spent money, I consumed things. Now another week is about to happen and it’ll be a busy one.

Hello Kitty doesn’t have a mouth. Apparently that’s because she “speaks from the heart”. Or perhaps because then people can project their own feelings onto the kitty. It’s not trying to be a cat. It’s a cathuman hybrid thing. It’s not trying to be just a cat, or just a human. It is what it is.

“Apparently she likes friends,” says Siwan, seriously, as we have our morning hot drink on The Kings Road. “I’m not gonna talk,” I respond, just as seriously. “I’m just gonna make cat noises”. An actor prepares.

A party for a six year old. This is the daughter of the artist friend who employs me to be a panda. I’m just moonlighting as Hello Kitty and I’ve dragged Siwan into it. It’s only a few hours, but it’s a few hours when perhaps I would much sooner be lying face down grunting into my own weekend filth.

“I can see your beard!” “You’re not a cat!”

Not as much of that as I’ve had in the past. These are decent children. Still, about 36 of them. We are all in Caroline’s art space above the Kings Road. It has been laboriously turned into a Hello Kitty palace. “Keep it like this and I’ll do my fiftieth here,” I said, but they have to break it all down this evening.

“Meow meow meow”. That’s about it. If I try sentences in an American falsetto I sound like Michael Jackson. I’m wearing a blue top hat anyway. I’m clearly a boy Hello Kitty. But no mouth technically means no voice with mask work.

The lack of a mouth is troublesome. Mouth holes are very helpful. Windows to the world. With a great big head on, you have extremely limited visibility. I could see nothing below my nose, as the gauzed eye holes are tiny. It was a very disorienting few hours, trying not to kick children and trying to add value. Weird work or not, I’ve taken it so I’ll do it well. That’s the game I always play. Siwan and I found enough to do, and we did it. The hours passed. Now I’m home and I’m going to do double the relaxing I wanted to do today. Don’t expect me to rise before noon tomorrow.

I now have a Hello Kitty birthday balloon. It will be MY birthday balloon in a few days. And I’m knackered.

Exactly ten years ago today, Claire and I were together about to fly to Utah with AFTLS, alongside Jim Jack, Paul and Georgina. The five of us were on my first tour with Actors From The London Stage. It’s a lovely lovely job, and you get to not only make a crafty Shakespeare show but also go to all sorts of fascinating parts of the huge country that is the good old US of A, and meet a wide range of people. Students and professors, military personnel, prisoners, philanthropists…

The model has existed for decades now. The actors build a show that fits in a single suitcase. You have to delineate the stage somehow, as you never know where you’ll be asked to do it. The five of you then go out to institutions scattered all over the states. You work with students, often not arts students, and you very quickly learn how good you are at sharing.  There are company roles on the road. “Travel” deals with the office and how we are all getting to the airport etc. “Social” blogs and does the outreach stuff, “Education” organises which of the five do which workshop, and liaises with the uni staff, “Stage Management” sorts out the theatre spaces before we play and works out how it’ll happen and if there are chairs, etc. That’s a double role.

I’m thinking about them a lot at the moment. First because of Winedale Theatre Barn. They are spreading joy for Shakespeare in Texas, and were beautifully led by James Loehlin. He passed away a year ago, more or less to the day. A huge force for good gone from Texas. I wore my Shakespeare in a Stetson T-shirt the other day in his honour.

Today I wore my Wellesley College shirt, a gift from that remarkable institution. It’s a women’s college in Massachusetts. They’ve got a replica of Shakespeare’s birthplace in the grounds. Every time we go we end up being delightfully nerd-collared after the show by enthusiastic young American ladies who really know their Shakespeare.

We had a donor in the room, observing rehearsals. I was mildly concerned, feeling the pressure to “be good”. I took my jumper off, likely sweating from the pressure, and I noticed the donor lean forward in immediate recognition. Sure enough, she went to Wellesley back in the day. Of course she did. We spoke after rehearsal and she took a photo of me, and it was a lovely little moment of alignment. I could’ve worn any T-shirt…

Jobs like AFTLS have helped me keep my sanity, make friends and deepen my craft. I’m happy to see the souvenirs from them still bringing a bright moment. And it is remarkable to think that, from my most recent tour with them of Twelfth Night, three of the five of us are in Othello. Shame not to have the full house, frankly, they’re a lovely lot.