Find My Love - Part One

Well hello to you and Happy Spring! Having shaken the snow from our boots and the ice from our eyebrows, isn’t it wonderful to see the daffs trumpeting up through the ground to announce the season? What a relief! The winter has been long and cold and lonely, little darlin’. The play wot I wrote launched me into it and was a resounding success: heaps of fun and camaraderie, nominated for an award and – even better – raising £1,500 for a local charity, which is more than they receive in donations a year, apparently. The lead-up to Christmas was accompanying carols and bell ringing, making it very busy for this atheist. After my eighth ringing session in a row, I returned to my bed on Christmas Day and barely left it until NYE, thanks to a bout of what had to be influenza, despite the jab that I’d made a point of getting. A point... jab... hehehe. Sigh.  

January and February were filled with Dick.

Ah, that joke never gets boring! Between my last entry and this one, I successfully auditioned for the part of Dick Whittington. Auditions, rehearsals, photocalls, publicity, dress rehearsals and performances. The last stick of scenery left the theatre barely three weeks ago. It was a lot of fun and hard work, and allowed the darkest days of the year to pass me by with minimum fuss. 

Dick and Pussy

Dick and Seamen

Excited Dick

Dick slap. (That's enough Dick jokes now - Ed)

The problem was that it had to end. The usual after-show blues were lessened, probably due to relief that I didn’t have to go out and be around people. This escalated to an extreme of “I'm not going to go out, nor be around people," I wanted nobody to see me either. I spent about a week in hiding. Not just in my house, but in my bed too. Under the duvet, where no-one can hurt me. Soft around my face; electric blanket warming my limbs. As much internet as I could eat. Peaceful, quiet… jeez, I might as well be dead because that’s not living. It didn’t stop me though. 

I was finally coaxed into an evening of sociability with my pals, offering me dinner in a pub before I went on to a play reading/audition. At least that had been the plan, but chocolate torte and a pub quiz sounded more enticing than decoding Shakespeare, so I gave in. What I couldn’t understand was that, despite sitting with the two people I love most in the world, eating my favourite food, and doing one of my favourite activities, I still had to fight off the panic passing over me in waves. I rode it out, being fully aware of its existence: knowing that it was irrational and that it would disappear soon, yet this only takes the edge off what is a disturbing sensation. To describe it to someone with their panic virginity intact is hard. It’s wanting desperately to run away, but not being able to move. Sometimes it feels as if my arms are glued to my sides or being held there by an invisible force. Make a fist and place it mid-nipple on your chest. That’s where I feel things the most. Stress is a dull ache there; affection, a warm glow. I often press my own fist deep into that spot to numb anything unwelcome. Panic radiates from there and gets into my head, in the same way an egg beater on high speed would. Understand now? Me neither. 

And yet, I got through to the end of the evening and I was proud. We didn’t win the quiz by a long, ignorant chalk, but we didn’t come last either. I promised I would go to the second play reading on Wednesday, and knew I'd be doing it with my head held higher than it had been for days. I might even venture out of the house voluntarily! Of course, this was when reality got its massive kneecap out and used it to plough a furrow right through my delicate bits:

As we were preparing to leave, one of us noticed repeated missed calls from their daughter; one of us checked their phone and emails to investigate; three of us learned some awful news about a mutual friend and sat back down in shock. It seemed that lovely Martin, who has managed many a stage on which we’d been performing, had passed away. 

How could this be? I’d only seen him last week as we piled bits of set into the scenery store together. When (at over twenty years his junior), I was more poorly and knackered than he was! But it was true. Quickly, suddenly, overnight, five days after I’d given him a big kiss and hug goodbye, that was filled with emotion and gratitude for his hard work and friendship throughout the show. I’d actually bade him farewell. How often does that happen? It wasn’t enough to stem tears that had snuck past the Sertraline guards and were now escaping down my face. This was real sadness, not this pretend stuff that I battle daily. 

We cried together as the pub closed around us. Then we shuffled back to their house, arms-in-arms, and cried some more, between reminiscences of a friendly, delightful man whom it had been a pleasure to know. My gratitude for his acquaintance was matched by the gratitude that I’d been in company when I’d found out, and that the love I have for those companions is mutual. It was in the early hours of Monday morning that I walked back to my car, past the theatre that I’d rarely ever been to without Martin also being there. Everything was darker, colder and emptier, just like the world seemed now I knew that this lovely soul was no longer in it. R.I.P Martin. 

Something like this reminds us that life really is short. It could have inspired me to Get On With It. Instead, I went the other way and returned to my hiding-place. Maybe it was a testament to how much Martin had got under my skin? I managed to honour my promise to go to the play reading somewhat reluctantly but determinedly. (Yes, you can do both, but it makes your head throb.) Then, as we all know, a freakishly unseasonable storm saw the country buried in snow, and me buried under the eiderdown once more, with the heating on full blast and a really good excuse this time. Luckily for us all, snow thaws, antidepressants numb, and time heals more every day. 

Now before you go blubbing into your Bluetooth device, what I really wanted to share with you was something a little lighter. You see, during the pantomime I was surrounded by people but most importantly, male people. Ones who like me enough to give me hugs whenever I demanded them. Which was often, as I needed to replenish my dwindling stocks. (Not a euphemism.) It felt so good! Going cold turkey as soon as the show ended did not. One of the single chaps had displayed somewhat more than just platonic interest, and it made things stir that I thought might never stir again. The problem is that, while he’s delicious and fanciable, I’m old enough to be his mother and find it hard to forget that when spending time with him. This didn’t stop me from contacting him and trying to arrange a date. The sucking void left by Dick needed to be filled. (Seriously, NOT A EUPHEMISM!) I think we might both have realised how odd it would have been as our messages petered out. Maybe a lucky escape, but I was still craving companionship. It’s been seven months since my last bit of “romance”. I just wasn’t meeting the right candidates. 

So, all of this made me think that maybe, just maybe, I should wade through the murky waters of online dating again. Nearly three years has passed since the misery of the last time. This tougher, stronger, different person that I am now could have a different approach to it. Instead of trying to sell myself on paper with flowery words, I could be more concise: 

Wanted: Man. Single. Tall. Kind. Musician. GSOH. 

For a tall, kind, musical, amusing girl, who you really need to meet to appreciate. I sing, act, bake, write and compile puzzles for varying amounts of money, sometimes none at all. I don’t enjoy wine, but I do enjoy laughing. I’m slim with curves and long, red hair. I don’t photograph well. I have neither kids nor ex-husbands. I’m not interested in casual hook-ups, so let’s not waste each other’s time, but if you’re serious, take me for a walk in the countryside and we’ll talk.

That’s more abrupt than concise and smacks of experiences that I have no intention of repeating. The whole process hoovered up many precious hours before – one of the reasons I didn’t want to go back. If I did it – if – I’d have to let the chaps find me, rather than searching through them. I’d have to select a site carefully. I’d need to be choosing from blokes who had heard of apostrophes and who knew how to use them. Plenty of Fish, Match and Guardian Soulmates had all produced swathes of the wrong sorts of guys, for reasons punctuational and political. As I wondered if there was anywhere else to look, curiosity and loneliness took me by the hands and led me to the eHarmony home page. And before you could say “if”, I was setting up an account. 

Ah, the tedious, time-sucking, self-focusing setting up of an account. So many questions to answer, all about me. I was not my favourite person at that moment – I rarely am – so it was with half a heart that I wrote about my passions, and hastily illustrated my spare time activities. Then the dreaded wall of adjectives from which one must choose. It was supposed to be how my best friends would describe me, but I really didn’t want to bother anyone. I picked CREATIVE without missing a beat. I expect people can see that. To this I added AFFECTIONATE, ARTICULATE and FUNNY. I nearly put KIND instead of ARTICULATE, but I was trying to paint a bigger picture. (CREATIVE, see?) I don’t suppose many suitors will read that part anyway. 

I thought I was nearly done, but oh no: enter the legendary eHarmony Personality Questionnaire, that makes the Spanish Inquisition look like a daytime TV phone-in quiz. Its point is to get to the bottom of your character by asking question after dull question, some of which were hard to answer quickly. Yet I did, making me worry if I’d done myself justice. (Lighten up, Lizzie! It’s not like this is legally binding.) They all had seven blobs, on a scale of “Not at all, no way, never and I’d shun anyone who did,” to “Oh yes, baby, that is totally my bag,” passing through “….meh”. A blob was highlighted for each response. It’s cleverly constructed, weaving similar queries around others to produce a precise precis. Kind of: “Do things make you angry?” Then later: “Are you sure things make you angry?” Then later still: “Are you really sure things make you angry?” By which time, your answer may have mutated from its original form. Of course, Little Miss Conflict here may have confused it e.g. denying I was a leader but highly agreeing that I would take charge of a situation etc. I got quite impatient with it in the end. After all, I wasn’t really signing up to this was I? I just wanted to see if there was a point to it. Where were the men? Show me the men! Then let me decide. 

I sped up a notch, grabbing any old photo for my profile, and finding my unsmiling headshot from Dick. 

Dick head.

Actually, I was smiling, but it’s one of my “someone’s pointing a camera at me for an official picture” grimaces, where I press my lips together and don’t look very happy. I look a lot better under a daft faces or exaggerated grin, which is why I end up with so many pictures like this: 

So it’s true - I really am not photogenic. I’m not sure that the above will haul in the marriage proposals, though they’re a much more accurate representation of me. This isn’t going to go well, is it? 

Still jumping through eHarmony’s hoops, like a fat doggy being coaxed on by the promise of a juicy sausage or two, I listed “health, friends and music” as three things I’m thankful for. Just three. No room for a roof over my head; food to eat; being able to see and hear, and walk and talk, and laugh and sing. Obviously, I’m most grateful for surviving cancer, but I’m feel like I bang on about it too much. While it wasn’t a walk in the park, it was a doddle compared to what some of my friends are going through even as I type. It almost seemed like a doddle compared to this process. I hated every minute of the set-up. Yet again trying to define myself through a series of inane questions. Trying to list things I like in fewer than one hundred characters. Trying to nail film, book, music preferences down to just two or three genres, so I can be matched. It’s much more complex than that. I’m much more complex. Just try asking me for “job title” and see where you get. 

I gave up on not asking for help when I got to “What’s the first thing that people notice about you,” and posted the question on Facebook as a free-for-all. Words can’t express my distaste for doing this. I wasn’t in the mood for a compliment-fishing trip, yet I came away with a netful which made my eyes and my conscience prickle. The kinder the words, the more I felt I had unlocked new levels of scumbag. My confidence took a nosedive – what the hell was I doing? Trying to sell myself to strangers the same way I’d sell other used goods. It’s not the way I want it to go. Can’t I just meet someone naturally?? It turns out that I really can’t, and especially not if I never leave the house.

I pulled myself together and pressed the enter key. I’d got through the arduous ordeal with only minimal depletion of my chocolate stock. (It’s a vast stock.) An email pinged into my inbox, welcoming me to the website and introducing me to my first few matches. My reward for all the agony. At last! Show me the… blurry man-shaped blobs with first names? 

Yeah, single bitch. You see nothing until you slap down the spondoolicks. 

Now was the time to commit. To swallow it down or spit it out. Did I really want to do this? Was I ready to remount the crazy rollercoaster of emotions that is internet dating for a near-middle-aged woman? If only I knew what I wanted! I don’t even want breakfast. But I’m hungry and cold. So I do want it… don’t I? 

Oh Paypal, you make snap decisions so much snappier. A couple of clicks, a remembered password, and there I was - £39 the poorer and still bewildered as to why I’d done it. If you don’t step out of your comfort zone occasionally, it never gets any bigger. That must be what I’m doing. It’s like courgettes. Since I was a kid, I’ve hated them. Yet over the years, I’ve tried them from time to time, just to be sure that I still hate them. It turns out that now I’m rather fond of them. So much so that I’ve purchased and prepared them for myself. Tastes change. Zones expand. Pictures un-blur and become single men with faces, looking for partners. Nervously, I clicked onto the first one...

Was he a courgette, or a big fat marrow? Will Lizzie be zu-keen-i on him or does she squash the whole thing? Prepare yourselves for the second helping. It's already simmering.

I Won't Let the Sun Go Down on Me

People are expecting all manner of things from me today, but instead of tackling them I am pausing to write this down in the hope that it will help. Mainly me, but possibly any other poor sod that is having to wrestle similarly. Also, to inform and explain to anyone wondering why they haven’t heard back from me, or seen me about in places they might have expected.

My (landlady's) cosy cottage

Shoving boxes, a pause. 

So, there’s no time for apologising. I do that a LOT. You’ll have to take it as read. We all know it’s been a while since my last post etc etc. You may be pleased to know that I found me a place to live and the move was impressive. Lots of stuff, but tonnes of beautiful assistance to match it, making it a completely different experience to the one I’d been expecting. To quote Eliza Darcy neé Bennet: “In fact <it was> quite the opposite.” I’ve been ensconced in my cottage for nearly two months now, and I love it more every day. It turns out to be much more suitable for me than the old place was. All that fuss for nothing!! True, I haven’t quite finished unpacking and settling in yet, but who has? In between shoving boxes about and ordering white goods, life has had to go on. Life which involves a healthy dollop of puzzle compiling; only a pinch of cake baking as yet; a soupçon of ringing and a glut of writing, directing and appearing in a play for a drama group that I’ve not really worked with before, but who are so refreshing that it might be the start of a longer relationship.

Publicity still from Littleford's Got Talent. 

I’ve been doing tremendously well as it happens, enjoying the dying summer days with renewed vigour. To cope with the upheaval of changing address, I created New Lizzie – one who embraces the unfamiliar (a concept which is even more unfamiliar to Old Lizzie.) She’s walking a lot more. She’s not hanging around anyone who makes her feel bad about herself. She even re-joined Slimming World five weeks ago, to help regain control over the appalling eating habits she’s developed over the last few years. There’ll be more on this soon. I’m 6lb down so far, which would be more useful if it had come off places that need downsizing, rather than places that need every ounce they can get. Cough, boobies, cough.

So what the fudging fudge happened? I am still asking myself that as I cling to the inside of an increasingly steep and slippery drainpipe. It was all very sudden. One minute I’m having the time of my life, randomly bursting into laughter and feeling incredible; the next, there’s a horrifying darkness all around me and I can’t find a torch. In terms of events, nothing changed. OK, the performance is getting closer which is a stressful time, but that’s a sensation I am very much used to. There’s been no bad news, no work lost, no blokes to break my heart. I don’t understand.

It’s true that, at the start of last week, I was feeling so positive I decided to self-unmedicate again, down to the next level; going from 100mg sertraline to 50mg as I had a nasty brain fog that I assumed was the tablets. If I’m feeling OK, I thought, maybe the excess sertraline is making me hazy? When coming off antidepressants one has to be careful. The side effects are unpleasant, particularly the dizziness. If I ever forget to take my tablet, my body alerts me to the fact later that night, by creating a puddle of sweat then waking me up with it. So I was prepared for clammy nights and a spot of eyeball-spinning until everything settled down. It takes a few weeks for the effects of the drug to wear off, the same as it does when you are waiting for them to start working. Therefore, in conclusion m’lud, I don’t think that’s the reason for the drop. Suffice it to say though, I put myself back on 100mg quick smart.

The only other reason I can think of might be the time of year. If you’ve been living in England over the last few weeks, you will have experienced the delights of the summer fading to autumn. Oh autumn, you deceptive season! You set the countryside on fire with blazing colours; bright and beautiful. Then while we’re gawping in admiration and enjoying the occasional (and freakishly) warm day, we don’t notice you stealing the light and stirring up wind and rain and inclemency until it’s too late. Hibernation suddenly seems like a great idea. I’m not surprised they call it “fall”.

But why look for a reason? It’s blindingly obvious to me that this is an illness and, just like a migraine or an unpopular relative, it can turn up unannounced and completely wreck your plans.

When I drove back from the rehearsal last night, I was trying to explore my symptoms. I had been a mess throughout the evening, finding it hard to string a sentence together. Even the ones I had pre-written. I couldn’t remember songwords I had read from the screen a mere ten seconds previously. I blanked on names of people I have known (and seen regularly) for a couple of years; I was shaking, particularly my hands, which made turning pages and playing instruments a lot harder, and tears were never distant. How can I instil confidence in a cast, when I’m like this? How can I expect everyone to be off script, when I read from mine? But there is more: The anxiety is shocking, the worst I’ve ever had. I’m still a long way from full-blown panic attacks, though once or twice I have come close, usually when an overwhelming urge to leave has conflicted with a desire to stay, resulting in a sense of imprisonment. As I awake from slumbers (night, morning, post-prandial, post-post-prandial), I boot up slowly like an ancient laptop, and doom and fear and despondency come flooding back. They don’t go away. They’re on my shoulders as I type, united in a single entity: A slavering Demon in black, with tentacles that wrap around my neck and gently squeeze while it drools on my shoulder and breathes foul into my face, whispering “Useless. Hopeless. Pointless. Pathetic.” Over and over. Please, please bugger off. I have got a lot of living to do and I can’t do it when I keep slipping over on your dribble.

The fact that I had been feeling better might have made the chasm seem larger too. I’m angry that it was the best I’d been feeling for months… possibly years. This, foul Demon, is NOT acceptable.

I am fighting it with everything I have. You will notice that I am still showing up at places where I’m expected, albeit a chaos of hair, clothing, bags and words, but I am there. My number one priority is not to let anyone down. I hate that more than I hate reality TV shows, or litter. Or Disney, and that is really saying something! To let you down is to let me down. I am still managing to come up with the goods, albeit somewhat later than you wanted them, but you get them! I am still getting up in the mornings and trying so hard to keep going, because I choose not to stop. My sense of self-worth has taken a nose-dive, which explains the repeated apologies, for which I am so, so sorry. Paranoia, jealousy, fear all battle for supremacy. Skimming through Facebook without getting upset is impossible. I even have to brace myself when I check my emails! And the most mind-shaftingly annoying sensation is the return of the loneliness. I have resigned myself to being single, suspecting that I’m one of those people for whom that is the natural state. I accepted that quite comfortably as it makes sense and it doesn’t affect anyone other than me. Yet this week I have been aching for companionship, with a wailing and a beating of the chest that doesn’t do my shrinking cleavage any favours.

Being aware of the issue is important. Throughout all the crappiness, there’s a voice of reason. As if a fraction of me has stepped away to watch the rest of me fall apart. That fraction knows what will help, and it’s this:

🙂   Don’t take on new projects.

🙂   Get outside as much as possible, especially in daylight hours.

🙂   Spend time in company.

🙂   Go through with things, even though they terrify the bejesus out of you.

🙂   Drink lots of water and keep warm – it really makes a difference.

🙂   Ditto the healthy eating. It’s good for you and your body knows it.

🙂   Avoid your FB newsfeed for a bit.

🙂   You know yoga and meditation help. Do some! Don’t make excuses.

🙂   Be open about the situation, without banging on about it.

I mean honestly, I’ve got the play and then I’ll be involved with a pantomime. I absolutely have to find more work and honour it so I can continue to pay rent and be settled. I’m really getting into ringing, and that’s no good with nerves. Plus, I’m hosting a party/gig to celebrate passing the five-year cancer-free mark next month, and I haven’t really invited anyone to it yet. I am determined to go through with it, even if I have to pop the Demon in some sequins and bring him with me. I must keep going.

If you’re wondering what you can do, it’s not much I’m afraid. Or is it? Understanding is a massive undertaking. If you can’t do that, then tolerance is just as important. Kindness, though if that’s the way you want to play it, brace yourself for blubbing – I’m not very good at accepting that I’m worth it. Hugs are great, but not always appropriate. Plus you might find yourself being clung to more than you expected, and thus more blubbage. Don’t say you weren’t warned. At the very least, you could come and see the show. Now that would cheer me up, though you might not realise it through all the tears. Actually, you’ve already helped, see, by reading this. I’m not sure if I’ve reciprocated. I’ll have to owe you one. I’m also not sure I’ve helped me, but it’s good to get it all out of my head so there’s more room for the maelstrom of Everything Else. Thank you for your time.  And sorry again.

What next? When? Where? Will these generic questions ever be answered? Who knows? Oo, there’s another one. In the meantime, Lizzie is appearing in Littleford’s Got Talent, a play about a play about showing off, by Lizzie. (Oct 11^th – 14^th, CTK Social Club, Thornbury. For info, see www.octopus-thornbury.co.uk) 

Piano Man

What, so soon? Sorry, but I couldn’t hold it. When you feel a blog coming, you have to grab a bedpan and let it all out: 

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a pianist.

(Cue brassy intro to Tony Bennett singing “Rags to Riches” if you must, but that’s all the Scorsese you’re getting.)

It’s the truth. As a kiddie, if we went round to a piano-furnished home, I’d have to have a go. I clamoured for a keyboard, but as effluence outdid affluence in our family, I had to make do with a hand-me-down from my cousins that barely scraped two octaves. So I saved my wages from many a Saturday morning shift at the local corner shop, and in my fifteenth year I was able to purchase a Yamaha PSS-480. Wow! It had a hundred different instrument sounds on it and a Billy Joel demo track that your music teacher was sick of hearing the first nine notes of.

Wah wah wah wahhhh, wah wah wah wa-wahhh..... "Kathryn and Grace, I WON'T tell you again...!"

Ah, it was a glorious bit of kit, but with small unweighted keys and a memory bank into which I would record single lines of melody and play them back simultaneously, it made me lazy. At this time, we were given my auntie’s dilapidated old upright (NB this is not my uncle), and I certainly did used to thump stuff out on that. But by now the most awkward of teens, I didn’t want anyone to hear me, so in a household of six, opportunities were few and far between.

When I fled Planet Thanet for Bath University, I made an earnest attempt to learn. Students got massively discounted music lessons. The teacher in this case was the Uni’s musical director, Robin somebody. I remember three things about him:

1) That he used to wear a navy blue RNLI smock all the time. Yup. ALL the time. (It might have been the only thing that would fit him…)

2) That he had ferociously untamed nasal hair.

3) That he used to sit through my half hour lessons sighing. He didn’t even try to disguise his contempt. Beginner’s anything is very tedious on the ear, but I expect piano is even duller for a teacher as you don’t get to join in.

I had always seen piano playing as some exclusive club, of which I could never be a member. It always seemed like it was for people who were better at life than me. I felt like there was a secret to it that I wasn’t party to. Every expiration of air from this chap only reinforced that idea. He would sit there, smock crumpled, nostrils bristling, making me feel like I was wasting both our times. Any confidence I might have hung on to took a pounding from the practice rooms. You had to go and sign for one of three keys, which weren’t always available, (so you would have walked allllll the way across campus for nothing.) If you did succeed in admission, you’d probably be fenced in on all sides by thousand-fingered Chinese students with no choice but to hear them through the pound-shop-tissue-thin walls. They’d be zipping their ways through a Chopin étude, while you struggled to put both hands together on “Up the Stairs” or “Bear Dance” or some other mind-numbing composition intended for a five-year old. The passion fizzled out. Or at least transferred to my new boyfriend. It was something else to do with my hands, I suppose.

When I was teaching (and single again), I noticed there was a gap between the kids going home and the school being locked, when I could duck into one of the music rooms relatively undisturbed. So instead of doing any lesson planning or – good gracious me – marking, I’d thump out chords and sing along until I got kicked out by the caretaker. I did this so often, I got quite mediocre at it. This dwindled along with my spirits as my depression grew, and I replaced my accompaniment with a guitar, on which I progressed throughout the Jabba Years and beyond.

Then I fell butt-over-nut in love with a pianist and we moved in together. In terms of me playing, it didn’t work the way you’d think. At last there was a piano in my home all the time… but in the room he was working in, or within earshot of it; his piano, that he played beautifully. So once again intimidation held me back, and I spared him from my cripplingly slow attempts at anything recognisable.

Now we divert to my ideal man: The love of my life, my future husband, potentially a father to my twin boys, (though that bit is as uncertain as my desire for motherhood.) Sadly, it wasn’t the chap above. When I split with him, my excellent counsellor encouraged me to write down what I would look for in a partner. Tentatively I began a list… which sprouted legs and ran, taking me with it. Bullet points became sentences to which I added detail, and suddenly, accidentally, I had created the man I wanted to be with. Not pausing to think about how unhealthy this might be, I gave him a name and a family, and, inspired by a photograph of an actor I’d had a crush on as a teen, a whole story about how we got together. I wrote it all down, even read it out loud into my Dictaphone so I could mull it over while doing something else.

I assume you are curious for more detail, but you’ll have to stay that way for now. It wouldn’t do for anyone to know too much about him, for many reasons. I’ve only disclosed his name to two other people! The whole saga will probably be revealed one day, in novel format. So it is possible that he might change my life after all. Until then, I’m keeping him close to my chest, literally, but for ease of reference, I’ll concede a “J”. Obviously he’s wonderful, gorgeous, and sexy; always there for me when I need him; he’s great company, funny, intelligent, kind – everything I could ever want in a partner; he can never hurt me or let me down. Nor can he exist.

Sighhhhhh.

It’s all gone a bit Pygmalion, but with no Aphrodite to breathe life into my creation. There’s an overwhelming sorrow when I remember that we’ll never be together. The actual date we were to have met passed by several weeks ago. I marked it by being sad in a kind of a hopeless way - even if the place in Italy existed and even if I had managed to go there, we wouldn’t have met because HE (Joseph?) ISN’T REAL and I know that. I might be an idiot, but I’m no fool.

This doesn’t stop him (Jonty?) having an effect on my life. In a way he is helping to keep me safe and content in my self-imposed bubble of singularity, stopping me extending emotions to anyone else until I am ready – almost like I am being faithful to him! Inevitably every man I ever meet gets measured up against J (Jeroboam??), and few stand a chance of being remotely close. You might think this is loopier than an arthritic granny’s attempts at crochet, but remember that I have my eyes wide open. I acknowledge that this won’t go on indefinitely. When I am ready, I will let him go. Until then, I will accept that I have real feelings for someone (James?) who exists only in my writing and leave it at that. The brain is a strange organ.

Which brings me neatly back to the piano. (See what I did there?) You see, J (Jupiter???) is a pianist. He teaches youngsters and it’s his passion. My lifelong yearning to play has been built into him. In reality, we select mates because they can satisfy certain needs we have, maybe even bear some of the characteristics we feel we lack. As I have to survive independently, I find that the way to go is self-satisfaction. (Cough.) By learning, I bring him (Javier??) closer to real.

So living alone, with a deaf neighbour, what was stopping me? Not being able to afford an instrument? Nowhere to put one even if I could? “No”s were not answers I was taking. I logged onto Freecycle and found several pianos up for grabs. One was local, so I went to see it. The couple were moving in together and each had pianos, so the older one was to go. When they offered to deliver it, also for no charge, I could see this was one of those “carpe diem” moments, so I carpe-d. Days later, a 1930s flat piano, with a ¾ length keyboard was persuaded into the only space I could spare. What, according to my rented furnishings, should be a fireplace with a flat screen TV above is actually a massive mirror with a piano below!

My audience awaits...

The only outlay I made was for the tuner, who had to charge me extra as it took him such a long time. Like me most days, the instrument is convenient but knackered. It has wobbly keys and some of them like to sustaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin without being asked, but it will do for now.

The beauty of this is that I’m on it all the time. I walk past the room and catch sight of it so I have to have a go. I’ll rattle off a scale on my way back from the loo. (A quick tinkle after a quick tinkle?) I’ll run through one of the pieces I’m working on while the kettle boils. The desire that I’ve had since I was in single figures is finally allowed to burst forth and spur me on. Not only that, but if I’m feeling agitated or unsettled, or need a change of activity; on my way up to an early bedtime – it’s there.

I’m fascinated by the learning process. Our capacity to learn is immense. I watch myself sight-reading a new piece, then taking less and less time to place my fingers for each beat the more I go over it. If I am feeling disheartened, I remind myself that every pianist in the world was once as crap as me. Maybe not at this age, or for such a long time, but we have all had to start from the same place. (Even little baby Mozart…) Hey, would you like to hear how crap I am? Would you? You wouldn’t? Tough. 

(Lucky for you I haven't worked out how to upload audio files to my blog yet.)

(But when I do, there will be no escape...) 

Yep, I’m rotten! I could blame some of it on the keyboard quality but… nah, I couldn’t. It was all me. Please note, however, that I’m a lot less rotten than I was a month ago. I wish I’d realised how effective practice can be when I was a kid. All those recorder lessons where I’d stand red-faced, head bowed, being told off for having only run through my scales the hour before – if only I’d understood how quickly I would have advanced if I had dabbled daily.

Another thing I never realised was how much the choice of pieces affects the urge to play. I love Joplin (Oo Joplin???) and Ludovico Einaudi, so I’m bloody well doing them! I might leave out a few notes here and there while I learn, but a depleted “Entertainer” is better than the full “Waking Up and Stretching” to me, so up yer smock Mr Nostrilbush.

Already being able to read music helps immensely. I could probably achieve Grade Four with my right hand alone, while my left is at Ground Zero waiting for my bass clef sight to kick back in. Averaging it up, I’m aiming to sit my Grade Two early next year. If I can stop laughing for long enough. I’m so thrilled that I get the giggles in lessons because look at me – I’m finally playing a piano! With two hands at once! And a foot!

I’ve wasted a good thirty years NOT playing. I don’t want to waste any more time now. It might be an exclusive club, but at last I can see that I stand as much chance as anyone of becoming a member.

John? Jason? Jermoline? Will you ever guess? What is Le Français’ part in all this? Maybe he’s being saved up for a bedpan all to himself? Brace votre selves for encore de cette merde…

Keep On Running

It’s time.

Lizzie Rebooted fans – both of you – will note that it’s been almost a year since my last entry. In that time so much life has been lived, with more ups and downs than a roller coaster seminar. I’ve tried thrice to update you, but thanks to plummeting moods, confidence troughs, and having other things to do, Fabulous, Baby is where you were left.

The truth is that things did get worse. Then better, then a little worse, then worse than the worse time, then slightly better, but not as good as the better time etc. This meandering path has led me to here. As the reborn cyclist that I am (as of last week), I might be wobbling around in the dark, bouncing off potholes, but I’m slowly moving in the right direction. (My arse hurts too, but I don’t think I can work that in to the metaphor. It’s probably best I keep that to myself.)

I have learned a lot in those ten-and-a-half months since I last wrote at you. I’ve taken up some surprising new hobbies, forged new friendships, (ditched a few that weren’t working out…) and made some startlingly bold decisions, all to keep me going. I’m packing my days with Things I Want to Do which help me to become the Person I Want to Be. I’m thrilled to report that I’m more like her every day. I’m not going into vagaries here. No doubt you will have it forced upon your eyeballs in future entries.

Here are five fecund fragments to tantalise you into reading on:

1)      My dose of Sertraline has remained at a steady 150mg daily since July 2015, even in the face of all that crappiness with Le Français…

2)      … which resulted in piano lessons and a resolution to stay single, made easier by my devotion to the fictional chap I have concocted.

3)      Since we last met I've travelled in a hot air balloon, I’ve made The World out of cake, and I’ve been Aladdin, Guy Fawkes, Puck and, er, Beryl…

4)      … but I can’t wait to see the finished script for TMTG’s 2017 pantomime. Particularly as it’s me writing it.

5)      I have discovered the Meaning of Life. The meaning of my life, anyway.

I’ve survived the interim with more than a little help from my friends, but also by adjusting the way I look at the world. It’s not easy, and as winter’s bony fingers uncurl themselves and start reaching for my butt flab, I find that I’m going to need extra padding. So it’s time. Time for this old boot to reboot the reboot.

The -embers and the -ober have their beauties, granted, but it’s hard to see them through this veil of fear. Dwindling daylight hours and dropping temperatures shrink my usefulness and cover the ground with an icy sheet, making the slippery slope to the year’s end even more treacherous. My festive aversion seems to be outdoing itself, despite a couple of super days last year. A decision to stay single is all very well, and I laugh heartily to myself as I starfish out under the double duvet, with the window open ‘cos that’s the way I like it. However, in the pauses between not having to inhale anyone else’s body gas and watching what the hell I want on Netflix, the loneliness can bite down hard. One of my survival tricks is to avoid such pauses. Another is to write, as you’re never alone with a colon: never paused by a full stop.

There’s a definite change in tone to my previous ramblings – can you see it? Can you? If not, force yourself into my annals (DOUBLE N) and investigate more closely. As mentioned, I’m flipping my outlook on its bonce. With this comes the idea of blogging more frequently, but less turdily. Delicate morsels, rather than indigestible wedges that need to be washed down with liquids and a Gaviscon chaser. So that’s me done, for now.

All you have to do is stick around and watch the sagas unfold. Every pair of eyes that scans these words is also a pair of arms reaching out to support me as I stumble across to Spring. In doing that, I’ll be able to extend my own support to fellow season-strugglers and we’ll all be helping each other. (Meaning of Life #1 – ta daaaaah!) I can guarantee drama, entertainment and top-notch punctuation, all finished with a generous dollop of honest, from-the-heart Lizzie-ness. Unfortunately, I can’t promise you that you won’t be disappointed; I can only hope that the cause of that disappointment is not me.

How Soon is Now? What Do You Want from Me? Why is Lizzie resorting to song titles for her trailer? Is Vic There? Do Ya Think I'm Sexy? The answers to none of these and fewer will be revealed in the next exciting mouthful. Don't forget to swallow. 

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...