Fabulous, Baby!

Well lookie what we have here. This is supposed to be part two of my "work" blog, but instead this is the instalment you would have got after that, arriving at your eyeballs much sooner than planned and with a totally different ending, thanks to the events of last night.

Everyone associates this time of year with weather and colour, bonfires and pumpkins. For me, for the last decade or so, it's meant double sets of auditions: Both local theatre groups that I am affiliated with hold theirs within days of each other usually - one for a February pantomime, one for a late spring musical.  It's a trying time and no mistake.

The spring musical audition - Sister Act - happened first and right slap bang in the middle of Calamity Jane, the musical I was performing with the other group. I had been asked repeatedly if I was going to try for the lead, and eventually convinced myself that yes, I would. It was a hard convince. What with my finances and fitness, I really wasn't sure. But every day the mirror reminds me that younger is something I am not getting, and that I really have to seize these chances while I have them. It turned out that the decision was the easy part. Time and mental health conspired against me. I tore myself away from set building and prop making to attend the Sunday evening audition, the night before our first dress rehearsal. Unsurprisingly I was a mess of a girl. Randomly blubbing, incessantly trembling and clinging on to fragments of songs that I'd only got hold of the previous day. Of course you put all this behind you when you're performing. Well I started my performance long before being up in front of the judges, believe me.

I had been unable to make either of the readthrough/singthrough sessions, though I rarely attend these anyway, as a glimpse of the competition can scare me off. This is less likely in an audition scenario as by then you will have made up your mind to go for it, and only Elaine Paige or similar would have you legging it back to the car. I usually dress with the character in mind as it helps me to feel them. This character wasn't the least bit subtle, so neither was I. I looked way OTT for 6pm, but I pretended not to care. The worst that can happen is that you look like a total nobhead when you don't get the role. So be it. I can do nobhead, it would be OK. I just have to put myself through this.

Nobhead, 2015

I couldn't face being in the room where my fellow victims lingered (especially not while wearing sequins and stupid high boots). Instead I hovered outside, waiting to be called. There were three of us up for Deloris - two long-serving members, and a new girl, which is never a good thing. You don't know what a stranger is capable of. I had been that stranger a couple of times, many years ago. Dizzy from the combination of Rescue Remedy and Vocalzone on an empty stomach and a full bladder, I waited some more. That's all you can do now. Just wait until you are called and do your best. At last, I was called. And what I delivered on this occasion was almost the complete opposite of my best.

I sucked BALLS. I said as much (though with less vulgarity) to the five panellists, who already knew me and thus looked a bit puzzled as to the monstrosity I had shat out for them. What had happened to me? Tired? Nervous? Definitely under-prepared. But then I have prepared myself inside out in the past and not got roles and vice versa. It was just not possible at this time to give them my all, as more than half of it was in the Black Hills of Dakota. Why had I auditioned? Why didn't I ask if I could come later as this date wasn't convenient. If I had been on holiday or cold-ridden, this is what I would have done. Those who were both of those things had been given a second chance to do what they would otherwise have missed. 

Unluckily for me, the director was a one-shot guy. A principal he holds most strongly, and one that I disagree with. This isn't X-Factor where that would be the case: this is amateur stuff! We are all supposed to be mates, at the very least treating each other with understanding. And yet, he went all Simon Cowell on my ass.

On seeing that there were to be further auditions as no decisions had been made, I let the anti-depressants do the talking and wrote an email begging for another shot. Not alone, of course - I wanted no advantage over my competitors, just a chance to show the panel what they would have seen that Sunday, had I not been whatever it was I had been. It turned out that the other two Delori (plural of Deloris, obvs) had been called back for the Tuesday... but not me. Why not me? The cold-ridden and holidaying had also got their chances... why not me? I could only resort to pushiness, and declared to the whole panel this time that I was going to be there that night anyway and would they please let me try again. Amazingly, I was granted permission, but by now I had no expectation that it would change anything. I just wanted to redeem myself. I knew that prejudice had its bottom wedged comfortably on the casting couch, and there wasn't a hope it would budge up to allow fairness to perch.

Given that, I had been rooting for the other group member to get the role. She and I have a history of going up for the same prizes only to have them snatched from in front of our nostrils. It is a hard deal. Having worked yourself up into a frenzy of self-belief - you want this, you'd be PERFECT for it - you endure hours of preparation and hope, and trying not to spew on your script, which leads to a few short minutes, where whatever you say or do is being judged. When you don't achieve your objective, it hurts bad. It's a long way to fall. I had shared her pain many times, so it would have relieved mine a great deal on this occasion to see her victorious. Sadly this was not to be either, and the new lady became Deloris. I was genuinely pleased for her too, but not as pleased as I might have been had the outcome been different. My friend got understudy (a thankless task) plus a consolation role; I was offered the other consolation role, so undefined as it could have been one or the other. To be honest, I can't remember much about it as I was concentrating hard on sustaining my happy face until out of eyeshot.  You think I can't act huh....?

In the darkness of the rest of the week, I considered the offer carefully, putting aside the inevitable sensations of loss and rejection to be rational: I would have a part in a show that would be a lot of fun. Not the part I had made myself desire, but that wouldn't matter. I could still be in it, with all that wonderful brass and string music, being one of a team creating something special. Unfortunately, at two rehearsals per week, getting more intense as the show loomed, it didn't seem like a good move. I knew I was going to be involved with the other group, one way or another, which would have meant upwards of three evenings out, escalating to four plus Sunday afternoons. I often work into the evening, and if I know I'm going out, I have to take extra rest in the afternoon to make space for that. For a lead role, I wouldn't have cared. I would have slept instead of working, and made my money in some unsavoury manner to tide me over for such a wonderful opportunity. I couldn't justify that for backing singer/no.19 nun. 

Sadly, I declined. Most sadly because this is not the attitude that amateur theatre thrives on, and it's certainly not an attitude I want to have. However I considered that it was as much group-spirited as casting a professional singer who has never performed with the group before (and may not again, as has happened in the past...) over long-serving and loyal members who could have made an equal job of the deal. The difference is that I hate myself for it, and wish that my life situation wasn't forcing me to take this stance.

NB I may not be right about the "professional" bit, but I know she is established with a big swing band. I've seen them perform. They're ace. Sister Act is going to be great.

If that had been the end of it, I would have been happy to toddle back to anonymity but no. Calamity Jane had just blown in to the windy city of Finished, and the other group was all set for a panto. Oh yes they were.

Pantomime is where I began with this lark, nearly twenty-two years ago. Cue a pause from current events to launch into a retrospective of my musical theatre times, with pictures where I can scrape the dust from them:

The first panto I ever did was at school. Up until then I had auditioned twice for school shows and not got roles, not even made the chorus. I was a tall, chunky, unpopular girl with specs you could serve meals on. It gave me the message that I wasn't good enough to compete with the shiny people. So I found myself ASM-ing Dick Whittington. The backstage crew were encouraged to join in with the chorus singing from the wings, and I happily belted Ring Out the Bells with everyone else for the finale. It didn't go unnoticed. When Babes in the Wood came up the following year, I considered being a chorus member, and told the director so.

"Oh no Liz, I'd like you to go for Principal Boy", she said.  

Me? Really?

So my first role in a pantomime was Robin Hood, and I loved it.

At Uni I went along to the first meeting of BUMS - (Bath University Musical Society) and was instantly frightened off by all the pretty, talented and exuberant folk. I recall in particular a girl called Becky, who rounded off the evening doing I Wanna Dance With Somebody at the karaoke, and got spontaneous applause for the high notes she accurately pitched. I never attended the second meeting, and went through university musical-free.

Similarly devoid was my riotous year PGCE-ing at York, save a brief appearance in Manor School's Millennium Miscellany - one of the few "teachers" to take part. 

Let's call the WHOLE thing off... 1998

I did a fairly unrehearsed Let's Call the Whole Thing Off, and joined the kids in the choir. In my first year of proper teaching in Worcs, I wrote and directed the spring school show. It was supposed to have been HMS Pinafore, and I can't remember why that was pulled. I remembered the previous year's performance, and suggested we did similar, as it was 1999. Thus our Century Revue was born, in which I got another solo (With Her Head Tucked Underneath Her Arm) and led a couple of numbers, as I was the person in charge. That was lots of fun.

Having lots of fun at the Century Revue, 1999

The following year, addled with depression and loneliness (hmm, sound familiar?) I noticed a sign outside the town hall: Little Shop of Horrors - Open Auditions.  Something (probably the drugs) made me go, and I won the role of Ronnette, one of the three singing street-urchins. Now that was one of my favourites. 

Horrors 2000, just before curtain up. Come-a come-a come-a...

Harmony singing, dancing, glam costumes... plus a whole bunch of new friends. I'd go out for a drink after rehearsals, and suddenly the town where my bedsit sat wasn't such a lonely place after all. I even had boozing companions at weekends! (And did I booze... oh yes.) Next was Jack and the Beanstalk, and I ended up disappointed to be cast as The Crystal Fairy. I didn't consider myself in the least bit fairy-like! I changed the role and the dialogue, and became the Great Northern Fairy, with L-O-V-E and L-O-V-E tattooed on both sets of knuckles. 

2001 Crystal Fairy, my sparkly arse!

I'm not sure the director was impressed, but I got away with it. Unfortunately the group was not enough to sustain my spirits, and that was the last I did with them. Depression led to a breakdown. I moved to Bristol, and completed the task by supply teaching at a couple of really nasty schools. The icing on the cack.

My Jabba years ensued. I wallowed in an antidepressant haze, eating whatever was edible and eschewing work (see 9 to 5). In 2002 I noticed a banner advertising My Fair Lady by a local group. I called their membership secretary and he said to come along to the readthrough for their panto, Sleeping Beauty. I recalled how helpful LSOH had been in my recuperation, so I went for it. Thus began my relationship with TMTG and serious commitment to musical theatre.

Annie Get Your Gun, 2003.  More like Lizzie Get Your Butt Down To Slimming World. 

In 2005 I got together with X, who was at the time MDing both TMTG and DODS, (that same local bunch who are Sister Act-ing in April). Their 2006 show was Little Shop of Horrors - really! My previous experience gave me the guts to try out as Ronnette, even repeating the dance routine for the audition. I got the part, my first role with the group. OK, I was a stranger it is true, but the circumstances were different. It wasn't the lead role for a start, and I was definitely coming back for more.

Horrors 2006, complete with Audrey One

Having a partner on the audition panel is not the bonus you might think. Where he might have spoken up for me before our connection, his new partiality was tricky to negotiate. Not only that, but he would come home knowing the panel's decisions, but not being permitted to tell me! The cause of many a tense hour or so, especially in our early days, where it mattered a great deal to me that I could share a show with him. Of course now he's not my partner, it's even stranger! Who auditions in front of their ex? Me. Repeatedly. Still.

As we were pretty inseparable for many years, I felt compelled to try out for anything he was involved in. I didn't want to be left home alone while he was rehearsing. One thing that stood in the way of this was my confidence. He was always very encouraging. In his opinion I was just as good as anyone else, and stood as much chance of a part. This was a game changer for me. Suddenly I was able to go for things I would never have considered. His belief in me gave me strength. I've not had many leads, but I've had the guts to try. Whenever I haven't achieved the role I wanted, I've always thought that the person who got it was much better at it than I would have been. But then I would, wouldn't I? If there is any bitterness, it stems from disappointment. Extreme disappointment, which you can't begin to understand unless you have ever failed at an audition. Homer Simpson said:

 "Trying is the first step toward failure."

Without external support and with two fistfuls of recent rejections, I can see the donut-filled d'oh-brain's point. There isn't much more "try" in me. And yet part two of my autumnal audition agony was still to come...

I made my mind up not to go to the Aladdin readthrough. No. Nope. Didn't fancy it. Didn't want to see the competition. Had had a bad week, didn't want to leave the house. It was enough to know that I would be in this show, no matter what. Pantomime is a genre with which I'm more at home than Red Riding Hood's granny. I've been involved in fifteen to date: backstage/directing for three, chorus for one, and some sort of role for the remaining eleven, three of which were Principal Boy. There was no need for me to worry. 

I spent the afternoon making truffles in preparation for one of the four Christmas markets I'll be selling at. It was a soothing activity, made more so by the fact that I knew I was staying in. I'd even had beans for lunch, which I only do with confidence when I know there is no possibility of company for the rest of the day. I wonder how they're getting on, I thought and glanced at the clock. It was only 6.30pm. An idea flashed through my mind.... I could still go. (But I'd had beans!! Screw it. They're my friends, they'll understand.) It wasn't too late to join them.

Reader, I did just that! Again, I don't know what possessed me. A combination of the SA audition fail fuelled by drugs, plus the fear of yet another night Home Alone. Yes, I had to summon up a lot of strength to make the twelve-mile drive in the pitch black to plunge into the unknown, but I did it and I was proud. I had a giggle reading parts in different voices, and unwound myself enough to sign up for auditions.

I suppose I ought to thank the Sister Act director for his harsh lesson. There was no way I was going to be under-prepared this time. Some of the things he said to me during the whole SA debacle had been really upsetting. I had a determination to prove him wrong: depression, shmepression! This time I had possession of my all, however temporarily, and I was going to give it or be damned. Also, these tryouts take an "open" form - everyone who is going for a role is watching everyone else. An interesting concept, one that I'd balked at when first it was introduced. The advantage is that you are seeing what the panel see, so you can make your own judgements. It means there's more of a team feel to it, and you have an audience to respond to you - highly important in this genre. It also means that your peers can see you. Yes, I balked at it originally. These days I just loathe it, and can't wait until it's over.

The script is one we'd done ten years ago, when I had played Princess Mandarin's handmaiden So-Shy. Maybe this time I'll not be So-Shy. Eh? Eh? Please yourselves.

So-Shy, or not So-Shy? 2006

On Friday I printed out the audition pieces and read them into my dictaphone. On Saturday I played them over and over while steaming clothes at the charity shop. I went over them before bedtime on Saturday night, on Sunday night, and just before dressing up (pre-nobhead style) on Monday evening. The words were sticking like inferior brand wallpaper: Some bits attached, some didn't, some stuck and then slid slowly away while I was looking at other bits. Some bits didn't even pretend to stick, despite having been held down and threatened with a nail. Bloody tablets mean I have to work a lot harder to keep stuff in.

I was the first girl to try for Aladdin, and the first auditionee of the evening to speak. Just in case I wasn't feeling more pressure than my elastic support pants, selected carefully for the evening's strutting. After each section I returned to my seat and huddled up miserably, trying to keep calm and remain in the room. The adrenaline built gradually, and luckily my confidence with it, though not quite as logarithmically. It was hell. I was so distracted that I went for the thigh slap, as all good Principal Boys should, and missed my flippin' leg! Honestly. Missable is not something my thighs are renowned for being. Dammit. And dammit. 

I was one of the few to have memorised my lines, and was stunned to find that I actually remembered them throughout the Aladdin bits. When I got to the Genie, it was over an hour later. I'd seen seven Abanazars by that point, and fatigue was unpeeling my wallpaper like a good'un. I had a lovely little improvised rhyme about being a "Genie with a J", but messed it up. All the shakes had rendered me a gibbering wreck. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.

At least this hell came to a halt and the prospective cast repaired to a nearby hostelry to begin the wait for results. A long-drawn, agonised wait usually, which can't possibly end in satisfaction for all. I was ready to flee, but considered that it might be better to stay around people than not. In the last fortnight I have had little human contact, which isn't good for anyone. What harm could a little more company do? In the friendly atmosphere I relaxed, striking up conversation and even laughing a little. Until the panel returned, record-breakingly soon.

I felt the tension grip me, and I moved from my seat onto the floor, where I could face my judges and would look less nobheady in my leather boots and short dress get-up. It gave me the added advantage of my friend's leg, which I clung to for comfort, not even bothering to ask for permission. The director went through the usual post-audition-director-speech, thanking everyone for coming, saying  that  it   was   a   high   standard,

a-n-y-o-n-e   c-o-u-l-d   h-a-v-e  

p--l--a--y--e--d    a---n---y 

o------f     

t------h------e  

r------o------l-------e------s......

(Everything went slow-mo, my heart pounded in my ears. Clutching the trouserleg before me, I focussed on the ladder in my tights and braced myself for

Nobhead-dom.)

"Aladdin is...."

Lizzielizzielizzielizzielizziepleasesaylizziepleasesaylizzie PLEASE SAY

".... Lizzie"

Oh holy crap. I did it. Principal Boy at forty! And an eponymous one at that!!

(I understand that my liberal use of this word is confusing some people - it means that the name of the show is derived from the lead character's name: Calamity Jane, Sweet Charity, Billy Elliot, Annie, Evita - all eponymous roles. Panto-wise, you have Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Puss in Boots, and Aladdin. Oh, and patronising.... that means talking down to people.)

I must have got back home because I've been sitting here for the last few hours spewing this lot out in lieu of work. When you've gotta blog, you've gotta blog! What has happened to me between that moment in the pub and now is blurry, to say the least. I cannot concentrate. I tried so hard to do some compiling, but I kept being interrupted by well-wishers offering me congratulation. Even when there's silence, my bonce contents are spinning like a magic carpet in a Chinese laundry.

I wish I could lift the veil on the pleasure I might be affording from all this. Once again, the tablets make it like everything is wrapped in cellophane. I want to weep with relief - the auditions are over, and I have something to hold me up and keep me going across the bleakness of winter. When I had cancer, I was fighting to live. There were a couple of moments where I truly thought it was up for me, and I wasn't ready. I gave Mr H everything I had and I won. It took a lot more out of me than I had expected. Which makes it ironic that now I sometimes feel that to put my head down and sleep long; to drift away in oblivion, waking up when - and only when - this hell is over, would be good. These are black thoughts and they come, in spite of my total abhorrence of them. After the struggle for life, why would I want to relinquish it? It makes no sense.

So that audition panel, they have no idea what a lifebelt they have thrown me. I've put it on and I'm bobbing up and down in the rapids, still being tossed about, but now supported. I don't think I've been more grateful for a part in my entire performing career.

The world has a glow to it today. Even though it's grey outside, there is something that has been missing for a long, long time. A touch of excitement? More like hope. It's a tiny, tiny flickering flame. I feel like being kind to people and getting on with things that aren't sleeping or seeing how many Twirl Bites I can cram into my mouth before needing to clean my teeth again. People believe in me today - it's a bona fide fact. All that trying and failing and recovering, and trying and failing.... suddenly I've tried and succeeded and it makes a refreshing change. In your yellow face, Homer!

So I shall take the role I have so wonderfully been bestowed, and I will embrace it with everything I have. Tiny flame, keep the darkness at bay please, just for now. Keep flickering and don't go out, and who knows... maybe you'll build up into the blaze that I used to be, and that I could be again.  

Will Lizzie be able to find her arse with both hands? Will you get your tickets to see Aladdin at the Armstrong Hall in Thornbury, Feb 10th to 13th 2016 www.TMTG.org.uk? Will you ever get to read the second part of the "work" blog? Answers to none of the above and less when the curtain goes up next time...

She Works Hard for the Money: Part One

I write in the wake of Calamity Jane, one of the best shows I have ever been lucky enough to be part of. I think it's muscled in to my All Time Top Five, which is getting a bit crowded to say the least. The music was superlative, as any orchestra led by X is bound to be. (Biased? Me?) The singing matched it, with stunning performances from all the principals, as well as remarkable strength from the chorus, even the chaps! I got to do lots of dancing and interacting with a huge variety of the cast. It was so much fun.

During one performance, I had the chance to do some on-stage contemplation just before the finale, when I was standing behind the blacks, waiting for the preceding scene to cease. I knew that in a few seconds the cloth would be pulled back and there would be nothing between me and the audience. The second my cover disappeared I would have to smile and sing and dance and perform. My face was so close to the curtain that my nose was touching it. All I could see was black, but I could sense my fellow chorus members about me, and could hear the band changing to the relevant number. It might sound terrifying, but not to me. I felt completely comfortable, not even a bit nervous. Being in musical shows is something that I relish. They fill many needs that my life is lacking -  closeness, teamwork, hugs, laughter and performing. I am totally at home on a stage, especially the one at the Armstrong Hall.

Being at home, stage left...

...stage right...

...and downstage centre. 

The problem is that you give yourself entirely to the thing and it takes over your life for a couple of weeks. When it goes, it's like someone pulling a carpet from under your trotters. So while I love show week, I dread its end. This time, the usual Saturday night plunge into misery was cushioned by the tablets and I felt it. A sort of comfortable numbness surrounded me, making the inter-show void a doddle to plummet through. But there is only so much that 150mg of sertraline can do, and I was therefore unprepared for the tsunami of self-loathing and jealousy that plopped on top of me in the wee small hours of Sunday.

Basically - and stop me if you've heard this before.... What? You have? And you're fed up with it? Me too.

Basically, I hate the way I look, the size of my body yada yada, which I am much more aware of having shared a dressing room with thirty other folk. I got increasingly jealous throughout the aftershow party, looking at the pretty "youngsters" standing in a circle and laughing. They don't exclude me - I exclude myself because I decide that I don't fit. I was incredibly impressed with the leading lady, and not a bit jealous of her. I could never have done what she did - a whole week of shows and not a single problem with her voice or her body, or her attitude. She was exemplary and I want to remember that and use her as an inspiration for my future endeavours. With no outlet for jealousy, this became yet more self-hatred: Why couldn't I do that? What is wrong with me that I would worry about everything? Why am I so uncomfortable in my saggy, aging skin that I wish I could be more like someone else?

One of the most perfectly-formed of The Crowd did approach me afterwards and slurred if I wanted to go on to the pub they were all going onto later. (I don't mean that bitchily! She is perfectly formed, in every possible way, and another remarkable woman.) It was a genuine invitation and one which I would have lapped up if I hadn't been so tired. And my feet hadn't been throbbing. And I hadn't been so ridiculously sober. I am increasingly of the opinion that I should start drinking again. It might have helped me relax when introduced to a gorgeous lad a few minutes later. Oh, he was tastiness personified, single too... but only twenty. I felt ridiculous flirting with him.  When a female fellow chorus member joined us (older than me, but way more, er, loaded), she was sucked into the chat and it was like I had evaporated into a mist. I slipped away, unnoticed. I can't do competition.

There's a - hmm, what is the collective noun for a large number of theatrical ladies in their 20s/early 30s? I'm going with 'abundance' for now as I don't want to be uncivil. If I was, it would arise from personal bitterness and nothing else, as they're all really lovely and incredibly talented. I can't complain about that. But I also can't compete. I feel like there's a chasm between me and them, getting wider all the time. When a female role comes up that I might have gone for in the past, there's a queue, and I'm somewhere near the back of it. Auditions for the pantomime will be soon upon us. I wonder if I can lean on the Sertraline to get me through those too? 

Sadly this black mood accompanied me to my friends' house where I was to stay the night. We sat up a bit and I mainlined crisps and monologued, further resenting myself for doing both. I am so boring! I talk about the same stuff, over and over.  I snuck out the next morning as I didn't want to bore them any more than I already had done.

The same goes for you, so invoking my inner Python (oo that does sound like fun...), here's something completely different:  

Back in September, my mum came all the way from Margate to help me with my stall at the Food Fair. She was invaluable, but at the same time managed to get under my feet in the way that only mums can do. (She is very little, so it's easier for her! But she is also very, very sweet so I hold nothing against her.) While I was busy serving customers, she was trotting around the rest of the fair, spending her money as quickly as I was making mine. She bounced back to me clutching a fistful of raffle tickets. Apparently they were for a draw to choose someone to switch on the Thornbury Christmas Lights at the ceremony in November. Having seen an opportunity to promote my business, she'd purchased a daft amount. I can't write about her doing this without getting a lump in my throat. As I said, she's very sweet.

Mamma being invaluable. 

Anyhow, I had to fill in my name and contact details on each ticket, and at that point in time it was not convenient! I was trying to sell my wares and make eye contact with potential biscuit-buyers etc. But would she leave it alone? Would she accept 'in a minute' as an answer? NO. To appease her, (polite way of saying "shut her up") I scrawled name and email on all the scraps and gave them back. She bounded off up the street to hand them in. It was done. I felt a bit sad that she'd spent so much money on such a futile cause. I don't see myself as one of life's winners. I hate to see the hope that she carries in her heart crushed. A few weeks later she asked if I'd heard anything and I put bright tones in my voice, saying "not yet" when I really meant "of course not."

Last week I was exiting the hall after our first dress rehearsal for Calam, feeling very low and exhausted. It was late. Apart from everything else, Mamma, along with my bro and a sis had all gone to visit my Uncle in Czech and I hadn't been able to join them, what with it being show week and me being broke. Automatically I scanned my phone, and there was an email from some strange woman. I clicked on it and my evening took a turn for the bizarre.

I'd only gone and won the flippin' draw!

Yes, I - (along with the manager of Bristol Old Vic, but who is he to such a local star???!!) - I will be switching Thornbury's Christmas lights on this year!!! I also get an article and picture in the local newspaper at some point before the event. Drug-induced numbness snatched away the tears that I wanted to spill. (It doesn't discriminate between those of happiness and the other kind.)

There was only one thought in my mind - thank goodness Mamma's gesture had not been in vain. I managed a call to Eastern Europe, but it being nearly midnight and her being concerned about cost, it consisted of hurried whispering, ending all too soon - kind of an anti-climax! Of course she was thrilled really, as I found out when they got back to Blighty, and she'll be making a special trip to "laugh at me pressing the button", which I will be doing on Tuesday November 17th. Oh, Mamma.

All the above has taken my attention away from another "pressing" matter, and it is this that I wanted to address. Not loneliness or bonce health, simply my work/money situation. (Hence the blog title, do you see?)

As mentioned previously (Only the Lonely, second half) I am low on cash because I am low on work. If I tell folk this, the response I often get is:

"Have you considered getting a job?"

*sigh*

Here's the deal: I have had what might be described as jobs in the past. They've all ended badly. My self-employed status is one that I am very happy with, and I won't be changing it. I don't know why I struggle with Dolly Parton hours - having to be in A Place at A Time with A Boss watching my every move and jumping on my back when I do anything they don't want me to. Many folk can handle it, but not me. Nor my parents, come to think of it: Dad's just winding down his forty-year French polishing business and Mamma is a skilled seamstress. Even my employed siblings are freelance/agency, thus giving them a little more control over what they do. So this is another difference between me and Most People, which most people don't understand.

Here's a brief précis of my employment history, 18-30: 

Scientific research on two placements during my degree. 

Me, not orgasming (1996)

Did it 'cos I had to, but never could achieve the orgasmic thrill that my fellow students got from attending seminars and reading journals. Was relieved when both sets of six months came to an end. Turns out it wasn't what I wanted to do after all, and that maybe the four years studying biochemistry were a bit wasted. Or were they, as I became:

Secondary Science Teacher, full-time. Loved it to begin with - it was my dream career. 

Tut tut tut, and where were your safety specs Miss?

Dream lab, dream career. (1999)

Form EL all point to where they think Miss's marbles have gone

I loved science and I wanted everyone to feel the same. I communicate well and the idea of being able to inspire kids was wonderful. What went wrong? Reality. Admin and politics got in the way, discipline decreased and colleagues' support waned. I lasted three years inc time off to have breakdown, which didn't quite finish me, until:

Secondary Teacher, supply. Nuff said? Lasted... I don't remember. It was horrible. I obviously didn't think that my previous educational stint had done enough damage to my mental health and wanted to see the job finished properly. With breakdown in full effect, I spent a little while not working at all. Eventually (and reluctantly) I claimed sick benefit, or whatever it was called then. Within my sixteen hours permitted work I tried:

Care Home Events Co-Ordinator, part-time. Struggled through care home inmates eating the paint and moaning about my singing. Final kick in the head was a colleague's complaint. Was in no mental state to stand up for myself. Quit and fell apart. Rallied for:

Receptionist at a Paediatric Ward, part-time - was OK but fell foul of politics, of colleagues not wanting to take on board my suggestions. Quit after a couple of months, much to the other two receptionists' (who happened to be twin sisters) delight. Rallied for:

First Aid Trainer. Not quite full-time, but more hours as I was beginning to recover. Again lots of fun, but soon got dull as it was exactly the same thing, week in, week out. Quit after five months. Wanted to be a writer. Found this:

Sub-Editor/Puzzle Compiler, full-time. Sadly heavier on the editing than the compiling, which was basically marking but without the red pen. Got fed up with the commute into town, the restriction on my freedom, the paltry wage, and some tosser in the office who kept the air conditioning to what he liked and didn't care that I spent my working hours with nipples I could have hung coats on. Quit after four months.

...leading my then boyfriend to say that I never stuck at anything. He hated his job but still dragged himself to it every weekday. Why should I be so special? Find something and stick to it, no matter how miserable it makes you, said he. But how can you stick to it? I never could.

I've also done a stint with a catering agency - a very, very short stint; I've done a lot of home tuition - science and maths - but even just an hour being trapped (often in my own home) was too much for me. I've also worked behind the till at several shops. That's not bad - interaction with the public can be nice, and if you're busy enough, you don't notice the time. I have started volunteering at a charity shop in Dursley for various reasons, (see next blog entry for details) but not as a career.

All of this makes me shudder in memory. I wouldn't go back to any of it. Leave me to work under my own steam and with no colleagues. Don't bore me and don't trap me, and I will work and work until my fingers fall off.

So in conclusion m'lud, it ain't a job that I need, it's work. Speaking of which, I'm pausing here to get on with some... back later. 

What does Lizzie-of-all-trades do for money and do you need her to do it for you? Will she be stepping into Aladdin's fishnets next February or are there bigger tights to fill?  All will be revealed in the next chunky chunk... and sooner than you think! 

Only the Lonely

Loneliness.

I'm not talking about solitude - that's the pleasant version. Nor am I referring to lack of company - I have company by the bucketload, more than I can handle some days. I'm a very lucky girl in that respect. No, I'm referring to the bit where I turn out the light of a night time and roll over to snuggle up to NOBODY. I'm talking about waking up on a Sunday morning and looking lovingly into the eyes of my teddy bear. Going for walks with no-one's hand to hold other than my own. Cooking meals for one with no affectionate arms about my waist and no words of happiness whispered into my ear. Etc. Etc. Etc. That sort of loneliness.

It isn't just the being loved that I'm missing, but the having someone to look after and fuss over and care about more than anyone else in the world. I'm a girl who thrives on that sort of thing. To find myself a man (oh yes, definitely a man. Maybe it would make life easier to be looking in the opposite direction, but that's not my (old) bag,) to love and be loved by.

I'm sick of people telling me to be patient, and my time will come yada yada. They always say it to me from the comfort of their conjoined lives. Their time came, most of them didn't have to wait. For several of them, it's not their first time either! How have I missed out on this? My time should be HERE, NOW, while I'm still young enough to enjoy it. I should have to kiss a lot of frogs before I find my prince, you say? Well let me tell you, there ain't a single reptile leaping onto my lily pad, other than the odd married toads, slimy and not even worthy of a snog. Not that I'd tiptoe over that particular minefield again...

I am writing today, in spite of having a billion-and-five other things to be doing, because I want to convey the raw despair that bubbles to the surface from time to time. It's usually triggered when I see a well-established couple, comfortable and in tune with each other, like they have been for years. Or a new pairing, flushed with the excitement and novelty of it all. Where have I gone wrong that I'm not part of any of this?

Life as a "one" is so much harder. Obviously it's a financial struggle. With another person in my home, I'd be paying half the rent and a third less council tax than I am now. (A concession to us soloists is that we get a 25% discount for being stuck on our own. Not 50%, 25%. Sigh.) I might even have a crack at a mortgage! Everything else would stay the same. In terms of being socially acceptable, it's like a disease. Who invites single people to anything? We mess up your lovely even numbers. We bang on about being lonely. Far better to just ignore our existence and stick to your own kind. I wanted to attend a quiz night a few weeks ago. Teams of four. I couldn't think of anyone to ask to come with me. I couldn't bear to just turn up and see if I could tack on to a group of strangers. I stayed at home.   

I've all but completely forgotten how wonderful love can be. It'll be things that you attached folk take for granted, I dare say. In the times in my life where I have been half of a whole, I valued them daily: The touch of a loving hand on my face. Losing myself in beautiful eyes that were in turn losing themselves in mine. Cuddling! Not platonic hugging, proper cuddling where you hold and you hold, that can only happen between partners. Skin-to-skin contact, anywhere. That sort of thing. Definitely the, cough, physical side of things too. Apparently, as a woman of my age, I'm at my sexual peak. What's the point of that when there is no-one to reach the summit with me? What. Is. The. Freakin'. Point. ??.

It is definitely the company of a special man that I crave, and for that reason I do some sad and heartbreaking things. I talk to myself all the time, ironically to keep me sane! But more - I talk to my ted, Bracc. And my car, Jeremy. They are my best friends. My constant companions. I am on the very brink of buying some chaps' deodorant and spraying it about the house. Or adding a few drops of aftershave to my pillows. I have so nearly bought a man's shirt on several occasions, just to put in my wardrobe, just to pretend.

Two years ago, I did something unwise: I listed all the attributes that I would find pleasing in a bloke. The result was my ideal man, created in word form, and then just as quickly written into a story which has since expanded to almost novel proportions. In an attempt to hone it, I recorded myself reading it out loud and thus gave him a voice! I play these files sometimes when I can't sleep (which is almost nightly,) and I imagine what he would be like. (He has a name of course, but I'm not ready to divulge it.) I talk to him too! I think of what he'd be doing, what we'd be doing, especially in those moments of utter loneliness. He even has a playlist on my iPod FFS. Of course, I am madly in love with him. It's all a bit Pygmalion really, and just another reminder of what a tragedy my life has become. The unwisest part is that now I've made him, I'll sub-consciously compare any man I meet to him, and no-one will come out favourably. I've set myself an unattainable target! The only advantage that anyone has over him is that they exist. He, poor chap, cannot.

But being real is not enough! At the very least, I would like:

• A man.
• Who is straight.
• Who is single.
• And roughly my age, maybe a tad older - this is not a deal-breaker, because...
• CHEMISTRY. (Which can happen at any age, and is so valuable, and so elusive. If you've got it, cling on to it. It's wonderful, you lucky sod.)

Am I being too picky? Am I asking too much? I must be. 

I feel like I have no choice. Given all that I have written above, you'd think I should be glad of whatever I can get. Beggars do not have that freedom of selection, right? If a single man is showing an interest in me, I should grab hold of him, regardless. Well I've got news for you, world: I cannot do this! To quote that great philosopher Cyndi Lauper - It's not real if you don't feel it. (The Goonies 'R' Good Enough, 1985) When I feel something, it's in my heart and it radiates out. If it's good, I'll want to laugh and scream and shout about it, and love and love and love. I have never faked anything (yup, anything...) and there's no way I'm starting now.

Ahhh this writing is helping. I've been at it for an hour and I've just stopped crying. Hurrah for the power of words.  

Hope is dying, I'm afraid. I always say I won't give up, but nearly three years of experience and hurt is changing my mind. I've used the word "never" a couple of times in conversation. I'm afraid that I don't believe there is anyone for me. Not anyone that I can be with, at least. Finding straight, single men at around my age is like looking for a point to Kim Kardashian's existence. I know that folk mean to be kind, but "you'll find someone when you stop looking" is another phrase I could do with never hearing again. I mean, how does it work? I'm not really looking. I did try Guardian Soulmates, but I stopped using it after that chap blocked me back in July. Yesterday was the first time since then that I have logged in. Just seeing the page upset me greatly. It brought back a flood of emotions - all those messages I sent that were ignored; the few messages I received that fizzled to nothing, and the ones that were from totally unsuitable guys. I sidestepped it all and headed for my account settings, which I altered to ensure that they don't take more money from me when the six months I originally paid for is up (this Wednesday). It would appear that my second foray into internet dating hasn't worked either. I doubt I'll try it again. This too is not my carrying device.

So Well-Meaning People, if I'm not looking, how come no-one has turned up to claim me, eh everybody? Maybe it's that, while not actively seeking companionship, I'm doing it sub-consciously. All the bloody time! I'm sizing chaps up, whenever I see them. Of course, they are almost always already attached. I don't understand this either. Where are the single men??! I'm guessing that it's unusual for a girl... er... woman of my age to be single and childless. Blokes my age are probably those with young families, who haven't fallen out of love with their wives yet. (Cynical? Moi?) I'm too old for that cluster of singles before people settle down and too young for the batch of divorced dads on the other side. I fall between two stools. Into a pile of another sort of stools.

Basically, I'm saying that having established that the chap is straight, single and sexy, there’s all the other crap. And if, after all that, I decide that I like him, I could almost guarantee that he’s not interested in me.

I’m not (completely) stupid. I know that beauty is much more than the surface. However it is that surface that can be the first thing people notice. In terms of what I see, I'm more likely to fancy someone who is taller than me, who has hair, and who is musically inclined.

The height thing troubles me increasingly. I feel like a big, hulking girl. Even at 11st 10 ish. I’m broad of shoulder, thick of limb; Wide of thigh and of knee, and of the top bit of my lower leg (what is that called? Is that my calves? They’re more like heifers.) There is one (or rather two) place(s) I could do with being a couple of sizes bigger, not because they are that small (they are) but they aren't proportionate to the rest of my enlarged frame. Of course, as I get older, they just get smaller! While not the tallest of women, I am increasingly aware of my height: It's above the average for a UK lass by 4.5 inches, and only one inch shorter than the average UK male. Without heels. (Of course he could wear the heels, but then he would no longer be average…) I feel unfeminine and ungainly around shorter folk, so it follows that I am going to go for tall blokes. Of course shorter women tend to have bagged them first! I guess it's something to do with wanting to feel protected. Just 'cos I'm approaching 6ft in my stilettoes, doesn't mean I don't want that! 

In terms of what the world sees, I feel as if I'm already on a loser. How can anyone possibly think that the collection of cells that make up this Lizzie is remotely good to look at? I wish I knew where this came from. Was it the boys at school who always laughed at me because I was a bit different? Was it the fact that when I was a teenager, everyone seemed to have a boyfriend except me? I hope you're making a list of Stuff Not To Say To Me, 'cos you can add the old "nonsense, you're lovely etc" to it. I must learn to feel attractive by myself, even comfortable in my own skin, and not to need someone to do that for me. It has got to come from me. The most important thing is to be true to yourself. I am who I am (cue for a song…) and I want to be proud of that. It’s just that some days I can’t find the resources, and today would be one. Yet the way I feel about myself is a small part of the issue, and doesn't have much to do with this aching, yawning chasm that nothing else can fill.

So apart from all that malarkey, how is the rest of my life going?

My birthday turned out to be the best in my forty years so far, thanks to several wonderful individuals, including my parents and my sisters, and to me managing to stop crying for long enough to have fun. I had wanted this entry to be all shiny and positive on the back of that, but today's despair has got in there first. Plus, there were a couple more of those sorts of events that knock this girl off her feet and back into the poo around that time, and I'm still trying to stand up again after both of them. Although it has been a couple of months, I'm logging them here:

The first arose from the rock/pop band that I was singing with. (Should I name and shame them? Not gonna. I'm not that sort of girl. They shall be WJ for this tale.) After the whole "singing flat" debacle, which expanded into me falling foul of rotten communication between band members (who have been mates for over a decade), I was persuaded to go up for a rehearsal, at which a bass player and drummer were present instead of the backing tracks. This changed things a little, but I liked it. Live music is always best, though not always possible for reasons of space etc. I'd had to make a super effort to be there - I was already slithering downwards on my spiral, and it was the first time seeing the chaps after Everything. But in the name of not giving up, I made me an effort.

To say it was loud would have been an understatement! I had to scrape my brain off the wall after each number. The new musicians were related and incredibly talented, and I could see the gap between me and rock more widely than ever before. I'd been OK with the backing (eventually). Comfortable, knowing that it would always go the same way every time. Here was pure rock, where the chaps in charge would do what they damn well pleased, which would vary according to sobriety/memory etc and have little to do with the singer! My comfort zone waved at me from several miles away. Mr You-Sing-Flat-I-Sing-Great was as he always had been with me; Mr The-Sensible-One was really sweet, and gave me a huge, comforting squeeze as I left that evening, reassuring me that everything was going to be fine. I wasn't sure.

Anyhoo, shortly after my last blog entry - maybe even because of my last entry, which would make this even more lamentable - this happened: I was idly flicking through FB. Someone had posted on the WJ page that I had set up for us, which I and Mr YSFISG administered. I went to look. It announced that WJ were pleased to welcome their new bass player. *Scroll down* It announced that WJ were pleased to welcome their new drummer. *Scroll down* It announced that WJ were pleased to welcome their new singer.

Er, what?

In disbelief, I checked the page. All references to me, pictures of me were gone. Instead was someone else, who had had one rehearsal with them and was clearly very excited about the whole thing, just as I had been a few months back. She'd even posted a little video clip, which my curiosity made me watch the first thirty seconds of before my pride made me stop. She was all right actually, and looks as it she'll fit in with the whole rock ethos better than little Miss Sixth-Form-Prefect here. I didn't mind being replaced - I'd been expecting it. The thing I objected to was the cowardice of the method used. Wasn't I worth a phonecall of explanation first, even an email? This was akin to being dumped by your bloke sending you a pic of him with his new, prettier girlfriend. I was incredibly hurt.

So much so, that I decided I did not want to be reminded of any of it. I removed the other chap as admin, and then deleted the page - only that took fourteen days until it would let me actually remove it (FB rules). I knew he would set up another, and that was fine. I just wanted all my friends who had liked the band because I was in it, to not like the band any more. No reminders. I unfriended certain people, who clearly weren't my friends. This isn't like me, but again I didn't want the pain. If I was a vengeful girl, I could have caused a bit o'bovver - the guy behind all this was one of the inappropriately-texting married men that I remonstrated in a previous blog entry. I still have all of his messages on my phone, and know how to contact his wife. But as I said earlier, I'm not that kind of girl.

(I've just been reading the email exchange that led up to this incident, and it makes me so sad. I'm definitely better off out of it - a fact that I used to console me between blubs - but I will miss it. It was, for the most part, a wonderful slice of fun, and another experience to add to my collection.)

What concerns me the most about this is that I have a feeling my mental state and my lack of confidence let me down here. Regardless of the reactions of others, I wonder if I had been happier in my own skin and less open about what bugged me, would I have been able to make a go of it? I think I miss out on a lot of good stuff because of this.

Oh, and note to self: Stop joining bands in Spring then being kicked out of them in the Summer. Two years in a row now!

Number two number twos: And this one actually matters...

Yes, I love being self-employed and working freelance. I must do, as I've just celebrated a whole decade of freelance puzzle compiling, and I've never stuck to anything even half that long before. The pros are corkers: Flexible working hours - ideal for a creative mind that doesn't always get going when you need it to, then wakes you at 3am, sparking with inspiration; working from home suits me admirably - no commute; no fights over the air con; no-one looking over your shoulder and berating you for doing anything that isn't work; no clothes, if I feel that way inclined! Oh man, it's perfect.

However the main con is big and fat, and happened just after all the birthday loveliness. I'm not employed, I'm not contracted: Work can appear in an instant (which makes my day), but it can disappear just as quickly. I got a call from the place I freelance for, and when it was over, my monthly income had been reduced by just over a quarter.

A quarter!

I was already struggling, now I'm drowning. I've done the maths. I can pay my rent, my council tax, electricity and gas, contact lenses, TV licence, broadband, mobile phone.... and then that's it. No money for, oh I don't know, food. Petrol/car. And I have to pay my taxes too. What stinks even more is that I was quite slick at the two puzzles that have gone back to the office. I had them done and dusted so quickly that it made for an eye-watering hourly rate. I'll not get that again working from home, unless I go for a, er, different kind of profession. I haven't altogether ruled it out!

Life since then has been All About the Money, All About the Dum Dum Da Da Da Da, much to my dismay. One by one, the little things I love to do that keep my morale ticking over are being kicked out of my life, and replaced by big things that I need to do to keep my financial head above water. Cost-cutting measures include eschewing Twinings decaf Earl Grey and going back to plain decaf; yer basic liquid ibuprofen instead of Nurofen, and eating a lot - a lot - of beans. Oh these First World Problems. 

I am not, contrary to what you may believe, a fool. I know that the reason for my low income is that I am not doing enough work. The depression impedes me somewhat, yet I must find it within myself to overcome that for long enough to get some sort of momentum going. The increased dose of tabletage has been working its magic since the summer. It takes the edge off the lows, I can't deny it. In fact, it takes the edge off everything. My head is a swimmy, floaty mess, like it's covered in cellophane. Remembering things is like nailing that wobbly dessert stuff to the brick structure that supports the ceiling. As my doc has pointed out, it has to be this way:

"If you want to not feel the lows, you can't feel the highs too, I'm afraid. It's a price you have to pay."

Dammit.

That's me then. Lonely, broke and vacantly grinning through all of it, while working my arse off to pay my rent. More about that in the next entry. Work, I mean. Not my arse. It's not a good thing to get them confused. Speaking of which, it's time for me to get off of one, and get on with the other. You can decide which.

Is it better to be single and unloved, than in a relationship and unloved? Is it better to be in love with a man you can't ever have, than to not be in love at all? Is it better to just shut up about men and stuff your face with chocolate, and be glad that the only fart gas you inhale on a regular basis is your own? If you know the answer, drop me an email. In the mean time, I got me some chocolate to eat...