Good old Liz!

London is gearing itself up for the Diamond Jubilee this weekend. Everywhere you look, there are flowers, bunting and Union Jacks. Even Victoria Station, normally so drab, dirty and boring, has spruced itself up to some degree with red, white and blue everywhere. There are little triangular union Jacks on bunting strung across the ceiling, massive ones stuck onto the floor and long skinny ones like mediaeval banners hanging from the rafters and down the walls. It all looks rather nice.

For all our cynicism, give us a genuine reason to celebrate something with national pride and us Brits go all out for it. And sixty years on the throne, governing this miserable little island which punches far above its weight due to it’s (possibly glorious, possibly reprehensible) empirical past is certainly an achievement to celebrate.

Although not avidly, I have always been a royalist to some degree and certainly I think it is better than the alternative. And good old Liz is probably the best of the bunch (although I always had a sneaking liking for Princess Margaret with her dissolute lifestyle – I bet she was quite a girl!). She has selflessly put her country first for virtually all her life, kept a fairly low key profile when not on duty and never done anything to embarrass her family. If only the same could be said of her offspring or her spouse.

Although of course, it is their eccentricities and the fact that they don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about them and their archaic set up which in many ways endears the Royals to us. Although other countries have royal families, and I’m sure if you live in those countries you will have your own views on their lives and usefulness, they all seem pretty tame compared to ours. The exception may be the Monegasque royals, who have that whiff of showbiz about them, a little scandal and some much larger than life characters (including Prince Ernst, who apparently has a penchant for peeing over the balcony onto the domestic staff below).

This weekend should certainly be a spectacle, although I have no intention of coming up to London myself; I’d much rather sit in my own lounge in comfort and watch it on the telly. There are events on each day, with probably the highlight being the river pageant on the Thames at 2.45pm on Monday. Apparently there will be around 1,000 boats in a three mile long flotilla with a brand new, sparkly gold barge in the middle with the Royal family on board. All the bridges are closed to traffic, and most of them to pedestrians with only a selected few allowed across by invitation. It should be quite a sight and is the largest river flotilla since Elizabeth I. On Tuesday, there is a parade through the City with the spectacular gold coach (with of course Liz and Phil the Greek inside) on display. No doubt Kate and Wills will be prominent and the following week the glossy magazines will have a field day with massive picture spreads.

I am, definitely, starting to feel the excitement, and am much more inclined to celebrate this event than the Olympics which frankly, are starting to bore me. I like the Queen, and last year we went round Buckingham Palace which was also a bit of a treat (The Hubby had been very cynical about that as a day out, but in the end thoroughly enjoyed it too). I also quite like Wills and Kate, who seem pretty normal and (as much as possible bearing in mind their situation) a grounded young couple. Shame about Charlie boy, but there you go – there’s always one!

So this weekend I will be getting out the Union Jack T-shirt and cheering Liz on with the rest of them. She won’t go on for ever, but while she is there, a steadying and classy act at the helm, we should be grateful and support her!

Eurovision! Nothing like a bit of Euro kitsch!

I love the Eurovision song contest.

Nowhere else do you get the same collection of kitsch, bad taste and simply appalling music. Some of it is funny, some of it frankly dreadful, but all of it is great fun. I settle down on the sofa with a bottle of wine and some fattening snacks and indulge in waspish comment for the entire evening.

As well as the music, the judging is also fairly cringeworthy from the representatives of the 42 countries that enter, who have been given their 30 seconds of fame and are determined to stretch it to five minutes. You get to go on the telly to give your points even if your talentless singers have been knocked out in the semi finals, so they all get their glad rags on and pout (and that's just the men).

This year, I was rooting for the Russian Grannies, with a combined age of four hundred and something between them. (Come to think of it, since when was Russia in Europe?). They bounced around the stage in Azerbajan like they had been given some sort of halucinogenic drug, in bright red Russian national costume and gave toothless grins at the camera. Whether they were actually singing or not is anyone's guess, but they were certainly game. In the end, they came second, pipped to the post by a bimbette from Sweden who was a Claudia Winkelman look a like and sounded just like every other pop star you have ever heard.

For the UK poor old Englebert of course, while not actually coming last, only garnered points in single figures as opposed to the 300+ for the Swedish bimbette. He was second to last, which is almost as bad, with only Norway with 'null points' below him. Going first on the night was a definite handicap and the song, whilst expertly performed, was instantly forgettable. When will the UK selection committee (if there is such a thing) realise that there is no use at all going for class. Just put up the most attractive girl you can find, skimpily dressed with raunchy backing dancers, singing pure Euro pop. Time after time, that is what wins. In the UK we have a natural handicap to start off with in that most of Europe really doesn't like us much, and so we have to think about giving them what they want and like, but better.

What we don't appreciate also is that throughout the rest of Europe, they take this competition incredibly seriously. We treat it all as a bit of a joke, and in doing so we are most definitely on our own. Worldwide, it is the most watched non sporting event in the world, with an estimated audience of 120 million people. The rest of Europe has regional heats, area semi finals and big national competitions. A few years ago, the Greeks went through all that rigmarole costing millions, and then decided that the person who won was rubbish and so scrapped them and put up the biggest pop star in Greece as their entry. They nearly won! This year, they must have been clapping with relief at the end that they'd come nowhere near (as must have the Spanish!).

Next year, I think I will have a Eurovision party, and ask people to come dressed as their favourite country. Now that sounds like fun!!

Bloody trains

Last  night, it took me as long to get home from Kensington to Surrey as it would have taken me to get from Gatwick to southern Spain. In total, a journey with a grand total of three hours and five minutes to cover a route which is roughly twenty miles as the crow flies.

Apparently the difficulty was a broken down train somewhere outside of Clapham Junction, which meant a large proportion of the track round there (supposedly the busiest station interchange in the UK) was unusable (presumably because the points were blocked up by it) and everything was queueing up to be diverted to the slow line. Then once we got past that, we queued all the way down to East Croydon.

This was even more frustrating because if the tubes had been running properly, I would have caught the train before and avoided it all. As it was, I waited so long for a Circle line tube that I missed my train at Victoria by one minute and was forced to catch the affected service half an hour later. And it's no use trying to get any other train and catch a connection at East Croydon, because the Victoria train pulls into Croydon at almost exactly the same time as the London Bridge one so by the time you have hared through the underpass with the rest of southern England it has departed and you've missed it.

Needless to say communication was appalling throughout this delay, and it was only when we were well past Clapham that the guard ventured to tell us what the problem had been. Prior to that, we sat there and fumed in very British silence, looking at our watches and tapping our fingers against the glass in frustration. Even as it crawled through the suburban sprawl we all just sat there (and really there isn't much option to do anything else) and spoke to our loved ones in resigned tones telling them that we were going to be late "again" as the trains were up the creek.

This morning again, the tube was out of sorts and I resorted to getting the bus from Victoria to Kensington. It was a lovely sunny day, so it made a nice change, but it takes twice as long.

I dread to think what will happen when the network is put under real strain this summer. We have all been told that we cannot take any further leave during either Olympic period in case the transport system fails and we have to get local authority staff out onto the streets to help all the lost foreigners who cannot get to their event of choice. And it's looking more and more likely that the creaking infrastructure will not cope - if it can cause such chaos outside of the holiday season when there is no special event in London (even without the consideration that this is one that is predicted to attract about three million extra visitors) what on earth is going to happen then?

Massage - what a treat!

I love going to the beauty salon. It's such a treat to have someone pamper you for the time you are there and make you feel like you are the most important person in the world.

Usually, my treat is a manicure and pedicure before my holiday, and after a show where I have used lots of stage makeup a nice facial. But the real indulgence, which I treat myself to very rarely, is a massage.

There is something very decadent about a massage. The combination of the relaxing music, sensual essential oils and the masseuse's trained hands soothing tired muscles and warming your skin feels almost ancient Roman in it's application. I could well imagine myself as a Roman duchess being anointed by slaves who are playing their lute and feeding me grapes. Fanciful I know, but if you have ever had one you will recognise straight away what I mean.

The best time to have a massage is just before the salon closes at 9pm, when you can be anointed with oils, rubbed, scrubbed and stretched and then have a quick drive home straight into a warm relaxing bed. You don't half sleep well! But failing that, late afternoon when you can go home and relax for a couple of hours with a cuppa is also good.

The Hubby thinks massage is a bit odd. "I don't want some stranger rubbing their hands all over my body" he says, which is odd because I would have thought that most men would thoroughly enjoy that sort of thing. Needless to say he has never tried it of course, and so has never experienced nor is able to comment upon the definite benefits it brings.

Last summer, there were Chinese people offering massages on the beach when we were on holiday. For a very reasonable price of fifteen euros, they would give you a half hour back and shoulder massage on your sunbed. For thirty euros, you could have a full hour, full body massage. I could swear that the girls doing this worked in the Chinese restaurant in town in the evening, but nevertheless they did a good job. I opted for the half hour back and shoulder combo, which was very good, thorough and almost a sports massage in its severity. I really felt energised afterwards, though.

If you've never had a massage, I'd urge you to give it a try. Do it on a cold winter's evening when you can go home and snuggle up. You will feel de-stressed, calm and have the best night's sleep you've ever had. Bet ya!

Elections!

Elections seem to be everywhere at the moment.


We've just had the local elections in the UK, with a big turnover of local councillors and councils changing hands left, right and centre (literally!). The French have just had their presidential election and got rid of Mr Sarkozy and his bimbette of a wife, and not before time. There were elections in Greece too with disastrous outcomes of a hung parliament biased against the austerity measures and unable to form any sort of coalition, and of course London has just narrowly voted the gloriously clownish Boris Johnson into County Hall for a second four year term.


I'm not sure any of this wil make a great deal of difference to you and me. The pile of poo we are all in due to reckless banking and sharp practices is so deep it will take a miracle to get us all out of it and no amount of political posturing and grand speeches will change that. I suspect we will all just have to carry on making the best of it, and somehow or other most of us will muddle through and come out the other side.


At least Boris is a character, and it's probably that which has endeared him to the London electorate (in direct contradiction to the tories pretty dismal showing nationally) and got him re-elected. His bumbling public school persona, masking what is a brilliant intellect (and he does disguise it very well) and his tendency to swear on camera and say what he thinks are all great traits in a politician and sadly lacking in most central government office holders, who are so petrified of putting their foot in it with one minority group or another, or so constrained by spin doctors and 'advisors' - most of whom seem about 14 and fresh out of kindergarden - they become identikit grey suits, with the possible notable exception of Ken Clarke, who seems to glory in making giant sized gaffes.


Despite the fact that I work in local government, I'm very bored with politics and if you ask me, they are all as bad as each other no matter what party they represent. David Cameron and George Osbourne are both posh boys out of touch with anyone except their public school mates, Nick Clegg is a man desperate to find his niche and so ends up flip flopping around and pleasing no one (especially his own party) and Ed Miliband is just a squashed nosed over-ambitious prat who will say anything if he thinks it makes him look clever.


How would it be if we sacked the lot of them and put it to the popular vote about who we replaced them with, and said it could be anybody people liked - anyone at all? Who do you think we'd get? Jordan probably, possible Simon Cowell and Amanda Holden, and maybe David Beckham. I'm not sure they could do any worse a job, so maybe we ought to let them have a go? And while we're at it we could sack the droves of out of touch and overpaid civil servants that fawn around the offices of state and make such a balls up of things, leaving their ministers to carry the can. The border control fiasco is one example, and there have been many more.


If I was in charge, that's what I'd do !

The rudeness of the middle classes

The other weekend, we went to Wisley. For those of you that don’t know where or what it is, it’s just down the A3 near Guildford and it’s a massive Royal Horticultural Society garden.

We went there because, despite the atrocious weather and the obvious attraction of a beautiful garden full of spring blooms, there was a craft fair. We took my mother-in –law because the following day was her birthday. She had no idea what she wanted as a pressie, so we were rather hopeful that she might find a small indulgence in one of the  craft tents that she would never dream of buying herself but might like us to give her.

Anyway, it was tipping it down when we got there and we decided, after a quick amble round the first tent full of ceramics and painted glass, to get a coffee in the rather posh café. The Hubby and his Mum found a table, and I queued up with the anoraked masses for the cappuccino.

All went well for a few minutes and we all dutifully shunted down the counter towards the hot drinks, occasionally picking up the odd cake or biscuit on the way (strategically placed for our grasping hands much like supermarkets put sweets by the till). The trouble came when we approached the end of the line and whilst waiting for our coffee, gaps opened up between the Gaggia and the tills.

All of a sudden, a short stumpy man dressed, so far as I could see, head to toe in elasticated waist cotton traders clothing, barged in front of me just as I was turning from the coffee machine to move towards the tills. He hadn’t wanted coffee, and so had seen his chance to jump the queue to pay for his cheese sarnie and crisps. Fair do’s, you might say, but not once did he say “excuse me”, “do you mind if I nip in front of you as I don’t want a hot drink” or any other pleasantry which you might expect from the chattering middle classes on a day out. He hadn’t cared who he jostled or barged, only that he was going to shave 30 seconds off his waiting time by getting there first. He was, excuse the language, a rude little git.

Later, going round the remaining tents, time and again there was amazing rudeness from the inhabitants of middle England (that’s a bit like saying the inhabitants of Middle Earth, and we all know what they were like in Lord of the Rings, but let’s not get sidetracked there!). Pushing in front of you, interrupting when you are talking to the stallholder, or speaking to the very talented people who make this lovely stuff like they were serfs.

There is something very unattractive about the middle classes en masse. There is an inate arrogance which makes them think the normal conventions and manners of society do not apply to them when they want something, and which makes them think they are better than everyone else. I really dislike them, or at least having to be in close proximity to them, but unfortunately if you want to go to events like this you have to put up with them.

Despite their rudeness, all in all it was a nice day. Eventually the sun shone, we had a nice long lunch and I bought myself something even if The Hubby’s Mum dithered and couldn’t make up her mind. In the end we gave her cash – how soulless and commercial is that – but what else can you do when someone will never give you an idea and when asked what they might like says “Oh, anything really”.

One year I’m tempted to give her a tin of cat food, just to see what she says! (She doesn’t have a cat!)

Appendicitis

A friend (who reads this blog and who many others of you that read it will know) has just had to have an emergency appendicectomy.

The appendix is a totally useless organ in human beings, left attached to our large intestine as a hang over from evolution. It performs no function and we can live perfectly well without it.

I had mine removed in my mid twenties after two years of excruciating stomach aches and occasional bouts of alternating diarrhoea and vomiting. In the end, I had to go privately to have it done since the NHS refused to do anything about it until it burst. I saw a private doctor, and it was whipped out within four working days. I spent a week dragging out my time in a luxurious private hospital being waited on hand and foot.

Apart from the feeling of total relaxation (despite the residual pain) after the darn thing was removed, my abiding memory is of the incredible amount of pain I had experienced beforehand. The sort of pain which doubles you up in agony, feels like your insides are being stabbed time and again with a very large kitchen knife and makes you terrified of eating anything as once you do, you can guarantee it will come back out again one way or another. I had no temperature or fever, and outwardly no obvious symptoms (ie no swellings, bruising where blood was pooling and no hard lumps).

Apparently, my appendix was about nine inches long (naturally, until they go wrong, they are about three inches long) and full of grape pips. Serves me right for being a lazy soft fruit eater. When I went for the follow up appointment with the consultant about a month later, he offered the offending organ to me in a bottle of formalin as a souvenir – I declined, although it would have been a talking point at dinner parties!

A burst appendix is, of course, life threatening. Peritonitis (that’s what it’s called – aren’t I clever [OK, not really]) fills the blood with poison and potentially stops the heart which cannot cope with the shock. If that happens, you need to get yourself to hospital pretty darned quick or you’ve had it. Fortunately, that isn’t what happened to me and it isn’t, as far as I know, what has happened to my friend.

It’s peculiar that nature hasn’t ironed out these anatomical gremlins by now, isn’t it? Why retain an organ which is useless and so problematic? Most species would have got rid of it by now but perhaps that’s a penalty of being such a highly evolved species, in that it will take several more thousands of years for that to happen. And while nature is about it, perhaps it can do something about the other evolutionary oddities us humans are saddled with – for instance :-

·         Locating your nose above your mouth. Very inconvenient if you have a cold.

·         Feet – ugly and odd, but which do have the bonus of allowing you to buy copious pairs of shoes

·         Women having periods which actually expel body waste instead of absorbing it back internally, like other mammals do

·         The menopause

·         Excessive nose hair

·         Spots

Yes, that would be good. Any more?

Opening night- oh yes it is!

Tomorrow is opening night.

The familiar butterflies are starting to vaguely flit around in my stomach whenever I think about it. Although I know my words and we have done a couple of run throughs, I can’t say I feel ready.

But there’s nothing to be done but to go for it, as we have a large number of fairly foolish people that have paid good money to come and see it both tomorrow and all week.

Each time I do a production, I am staggered at the skill, dedication and expertise that goes into all the different aspects and I feel very privileged to work with such clever and talented people.

This particular show is basically set in a woodland glade. We have beautiful leafy trees, a realistic looking grassy bank strewn with colourful flowers and plants, and wonderful lighting effects for moonlight, starlight and bright daytime. The costumes are gorgeous and consist of silks, satins and chiffons. It makes a very pleasant change for me to be a pastel clad, glittery fairy instead of being in my usual black velvet with a menacing cackle ( I can still do it though, as I demonstrated in the dressing rooms the other night).

Come 7.40 on Wednesday night I will be fully primped, preened and dressed in sparkle, and will be pacing up and down in the ladies dressing room a bag of nerves. It doesn’t matter how many shows I do, or how much experience I have, I never fail to be twitchy and stressed. My tummy churns and I can’t eat after about 4pm or I feel like I might be ill. I stand in the wings waiting for my cue and my mind goes blank – I can’t remember what to say for love nor money, and the panic rises. But the minute I walk on the stage for the first time that night under the lights, the nerves vanish and I can perform; it’s quite a transformation.

I simply wouldn’t do it if I didn’t feel like this. The nerves give an edge to the performance and make sure that you are at your best. Going on stage complacent or over confident would be a recipe for disaster and without a doubt, mistakes would be made. Lines would be forgotten, props would be dropped, dance steps would be in the wrong place and at the wrong time and there would be a wardrobe malfunction. So being nervous is good, and keeps you on your toes.

I am lucky that my nerves do not extend to being physically sick like some people (Dawn French being a famous example, I believe, although I may be maligning her) which would be horrible. I never drink before a show either, as it dulls the senses and reactions – you never know when someone else is going to make a mistake and need you to help them. I have never forgotten one panto when I was on stage with the Dame and Stooge. The chap playing the Dame, who had indulged a drink or two for Dutch courage, forgot his lines and after a few seconds the other guy playing the Stooge, who had also imbibed that evening, cheerfully said “Well, I’ll be off then” and promptly left the stage. An inexperienced teenager, I had no idea what to do and couldn’t think of anything to say. I haven’t forgotten or forgiven until this day, and I’m sure it was all the result of dressing room alcohol.

Opening night is always magical. Everyone is taut and at their best, and the first audience’s reactions give you a clue to what the rest of the week will be like and you can slightly adapt accordingly. You always come offstage at the end on a high.

So after all the preparation, line learning and rehearsal, bring it on …..

Why aren't I Mediterranean?

I should definitely have been born in the Mediterranean.

For a start, I hate the English weather. "Oh, but it's so beautiful and green" afficionados will say, "So lovely to see the seasons change". Well I don't subscribe to that view. I hate being cold, and I hate being wet, and I seem to have been nothing but both of those things for the last month. I don't really like green as a colour, although a garden in full bloom in the summer with striped green grass is, I grant you, a lovely sight. But I much prefer the hard, brilliant landscape of much of the Med with its golden rocks, duck egg blue sky and fierce light. And as far as landscape goes, give me the harsh Yorkshire Moors or Dartmoor over the Dales every time. Rolling green fields are boring. And I won't miss seasons which are cold, wet and dismal most of the time. Permanent summer would suit me fine.

Secondly, I love Mediterranean food. Yes, I like pies and pastries as much as the next girl (and my waistline proves it) but I love peppers, tomatoes and garlic sliced straight from the vines, warm from the sun and dished up as a light lunch with a dressing of olive oil and fresh herbs . I love eating al fresco from the barbeque, beautiful grilled fish and seafood with no adornment apart from oil and herbs and none of the cloying French sauces which show off the chef's technique but are often used to disguise mediocre protein or inadequate amounts of it. I love fresh fruit in season - peaches, lemons, figs, pomegranates to name just a few - and drinking the local wine made in a little winery just down the road.

Thirdly, I like the lifestyle and it suits my body clock. I am always tired because I have to get up early, work all day at a demanding job with a relentless pace and then because I want a life, I am often out until late in the evening for my hobbies. There is no break and no rest and therefore little pleasure. I could quite happily get up early and be out late if I could rest during the day, and there is nothing nicer when on holiday than being able to indulge my preference for a siesta. Also, I dislike eating when I get up, preferring to eat about 10am which a lot of Mediterranean cultures do, then I like to eat mid afternoon like they do when they stop work at 2pm, then eat dinner late as they do (to take advantage of the climate and because they often then go back to work from 5pm until 9pm). Our UK timetable means that isn't possible, and we eat at routine UK times because we must.

Fourthly, my health is better in warmer, drier climates. I suffer dreadfully from bronchial complaints, although these have been much better in recent years as I have started having flu jabs each autumn. When I am away, my sinuses are clear and I don't have to use the steroid spray I use every day in the UK, and my skin is better as it is in the sun more and less inclined to be oily (as I have reached my fifties, my hormones are regressing to my teenage years and I am a mass of zits!). I drink more water, and so my digestive system behaves much better than it does at home where I forget to drink enough fluid during the day.

For now, the Med is just for holidays.  But I cannot wait for the day when I can move there permanently, coming back to the UK for holidays only. "Won't you miss things here?", people ask me and yes, of course there will be things and people I will miss. But it's not that far away (it takes less time to get back to the UK from the southern Mediterranean than it does to get from Penzance to London) and technology helps you keep in touch. And on balance, I think it is the place to be. So roll on .....

The olympic panic builds!

The London Olympics are approaching ever closer, and the press and emergency services are all winding themselves up to fever pitch about it.

There have been lots of articles in the media in the last few weeks about the security measures for example. The furore about missiles being located on top of residential tower blocks is one ludicrous example of the extremes the government is prepared to go to, to pacify the thirst for 'protection' against terrorism. There have been military flypasts over central London to show off the might of the air force, and Royal Navy destroyers in the Thames.

Of course we mustn't dismiss the threat of terrorism at such a high profile and prestigious event, but let's keep things in proportion. Is it really going to make any difference if missiles are stationed at RAF Northolt or on the top of a tower block in Southwark? Maybe a nano second before impact, but that's all. Is it really going to make us feel any safer if we have HMS Shoot-Em-Up floating on the Thames in full view of all the tourists, or actually is it going to make us all feel somewhat uneasy?

And how much is all this costing? Millions at least, possibly billions. You and me are paying for this!

Then there's going to be getting to work (or possibly not, depending upon what happens). The tube network, which has been much better of late with fewer delays (now I've said that, I'll be held up getting to work tomorrow) is predicted to be massively under the necessary capacity and we are told we may have to wait up to an hour to get on a tube train from certain stations. I could walk from Victoria to Kensington in 50 minutes, and maybe that's what I'll have to do. And that's if it doesn't break down under all the extra strain first. What's the betting the weather will also conspire against us, with storms and leaves or broken branches on the lines. Deep joy!

Of course, all this could be just the great British over-analysing and be like the millenium bug all over again (ie lots of panic, massive amounts of work and money spent and then nothing happens). Of course you could argue that nothing happened then because we had been so prepared beforehand, but if you ask me nothing would have happened anyway. And it won't this time. We might have a few delays getting into work, and I'm sure there will be a few minor security scares because some people are frankly just stupid, but that will be it (famous last words!).

I wonder whether I can leave the country for the whole time? I'll watch what I want to on the telly (where you'll get a better view anyway) and won't have any of the hassle. What a good idea!

Line learning - I am feeling my age!

I think I have now learned all my lines for Midsummer Night's Dream.

Compared to some others, I have got off lightly with this one, but they have been a bugger to learn. Shakespeare is, despite his venerable reputation, a so and so for putting lots of meaningless if descriptive padding into his prose and the phraseology is, of course, somewhat alien to our 21st century ears and you have to get it spot on.

I think I have now cracked it, though. (Now I've said that, I'll make a complete arse of it at rehearsal tonight). I have been reading the script before I go to sleep every night, on the train every morning and evening and have bored The Hubby rigid asking him to go through the lines with me. He must now know the part of Titania as well as I do, and most of Oberon.

It is perfectly true that line learning gets harder as you get older, and if you get out of the habit because you don't do a show for a while it's even more difficult. We all have our own techniques; mine is not only to read and read and read, but also to write them out longhand at least five or six times. That really drums them in, and I only do that if I have a lot to learn or they are tricky - both of which apply in this case. Typing them doesn't have the same effect, it has to be the old fashioned way using pen and paper. You end up with callouses on your fingers because none of us are accustomed to doing so much handwriting these days, but it works.

I probably shouldn't say this as it's tempting fate, but I have never yet, in all the 35 years I have been performing, taken a prompt during a performance. I have taken several during rehearsals and there is always one rehearsal about a week or so before opening night which is a nightmare when I forget everything, but by first night the lines are there rock solid. Same with song words, which I have no trouble learning. And provided they are simple, I can remember dance steps, which is much harder.

This is the last of the 'dream parts' for me for a while, although I will be tempted to take part in 'Calendar Girls' next year and the part of Mrs Danvers in the autumn production of 'Rebecca' next year is also a pretty good one, but I am determined to get this absolutely right. Titania is the sort of part every one who wants to set themselves up as a serious actress ought to aspire to, and I have done very well lately with Muriel Wicksteed in Alan Bennett's 'Habeas Corpus' in 2010 and Lady Bracknell in 'Importance of Being Earnest' 2011. Both of those have impeccable records for line learning, and I am determined this one will too.

If you are coming to see it, you are in for a treat. It's a great cast and a beautiful piece. Enjoy! And if you hear me take a prompt, I'll buy you a drink afterwards!

Bank holiday weather - typical!

It’s another long weekend, and yet again the weather is predicted to be at best average and at worst, pretty dismal.

It does seem to be a recurring coincidence that each time we all get a day off from the office (I appreciate this doesn’t necessarily apply to you if you work in retail or an emergency service where 24/7 cover has to be provided) the weather is pretty s**t! And I’m sure it’s not my imagination; Christmas was damp, icy and cold (but then I suppose you might expect that in late December although crisp winter sunshine is some of the best there is), Easter was grey and dreary, and the early May bank holiday is also wet, managing a measly eleven degrees in the process.

The English of course have a national obsession with the weather and follow the forecasts religiously. Whenever we are stuck for a topic of conversation, we either turn to the weather or someone’s ailments for inspiration. As Professor Higgins says to Eliza in ‘My Fair Lady’ “either talk about the weather or your health” as a failsafe in any conversation.

If you believe what you are told, we are living in a time of extremes for our weather and climate, but if you talk to oldies, they can always remember a winter that was colder, wetter, had more snow or a summer that was hotter and drier.

For instance, there are photos of me as a baby in the very severe winter they had in 1963, being held in my Granddad’s arms at the foot of a bank of snow which dwarfed him and must have been ten feet high. He had apparently just dug his way through it just to get out of his house. I remember when I was a child in the late 1960s we lived in a little house near a stream, which itself ran beneath a bridge spanning the road. One winter we had so much rain that this innocuous little trickle became a raging torrent, spilling up over the top of the bridge and flooding the road outside out house. My Mum and Dad spent all day one Saturday pushing stranded motorists out of the enormous puddle they had just rashly tried to drive through, with me watching goggle eyed from the safety of the front garden. As a teenager, I remember the scorching summer of 1976, with endless lazy days in the sun and standpipes for water.

Nor is extreme weather a modern phenomenon. It is well documented (I think there is even a famous painting of it) that back in Tudor times it was so cold one winter that the Thames froze over for several weeks. Even earlier, back in mediaeval times and I think around the time of the battle of Evesham in 1265 between Simon de Montfort ( a pretender to the throne and by all accounts a gorgeous mediaeval sex god if ever there was one) and Edward III, there was so much rain that the battlefields were flooded causing raging disease (probably typhoid) and foot-rot (presumably a sort of very advanced athlete’s foot) for thousands of troops which ultimately decided the winner (Edward III) whose troops were best equipped to cope with the sodden conditions.

Listening to the media now you could be forgiven for believing that extreme weather never happened before 1990 and all was calm on the meteorological front. But clearly, when you look back at history, that’s rubbish. And how often do they get it wrong!?

It has to be hoped that we will receive some recompense for the awful weather we have had for the first part of this year over the summer, and be able to enjoy some lazy warm days in the garden. I don’t care if they say it has been the driest two years in the last twenty, it certainly doesn’t feel like it and I want some sunshine. And where is all the recent rainfall going? It cascades down our road like a river – surely somewhere a drain is catching that and sending it to some reservoir or treatment works to be re-used.

And if not, why not?

Camden Market -a great day out!

It’s a long time since I’ve been a hippie!

As you will know from my previous post, it was my birthday on 1^st May and my birthday outing, to spend my present money from family, was a trip to Camden Market. I love it there, for the sheer range of trinkets and treats plus so much that is outrageous and isn’t found anywhere else and which caters for everyone’s tastes.

If I had had shed loads of cash, I could easily have spent it all – vintage books, old china, glittery (and very short) dresses, scarves, jewellery and beautifully bound notebooks all nestled together invitingly, cunningly placed to get me to open my purse. Dozens of stalls selling different ethnic foods (very cheaply) and drinks (overpriced) encourage you to make a real day of it and stay from 10 until 6.

As it was, we stayed about four hours which was quite enough and pretty hard on the feet and calf muscles. We walked all around Camden High Street, the market and Camden Lock and just people watched and browsed.

The place is like a rabbit warren, and we did waste a lot of time getting lost and looking at the same row of stalls twice on more than one occasion. I bought a pretty little brass and red stone brooch in the shape of a masquerade mask, and a notebook with a leather cover that had been embossed to look like a tree with a fancy metal clasp. Sounds dull I know, but I like them, and next time I direct a panto and want gothic or glitzy costumes I will certainly pay it a visit up here – you can get the lot!

It seems incredible that all these small business men and women are making money, but I guess they must be to keep at it. I imagine the rents for the beach hut style sheds they trade from must be pretty high as it is such a tourist trap (it was heaving with Americans on Tuesday) although there is very little else in the way of overheads to consider. The choice of goods is incredibly eclectic, and The Hubby spent ages browsing an old vinyl record stall looking for LPs by the Sex Pistols and The Clash. Not because he wanted to buy them, but because he wanted to prove to me that his old vinyl collection in the loft is worth a fortune so I don’t chuck it away!

It must be nice not to have to work and to be able to spend your days doing stuff like this which you like and which doesn’t actually require much money to do it. I used my season ticket, and because he travelled with me, The Hubby’s travel card only cost £9.20 instead of the usual off peak rate of £13.80.  Lunch was £4 each, and a coffee from Nero’s on the way home was the only other thing we bought apart from the little pressies mentioned above.

The only slight downside of the day was the machines at the ticket barriers at London Bridge station seem to have buggered up the magnetic strip on my season ticket which is now not working in the barriers either at Victoria or on the tube. I’ll have to go and get it changed on my way home tonight at the ticket office, which will be accompanied by much irritated clucking from the Network Rail staff for causing them extra work (although it’s their bloody barriers which have done the damage in the first place) and a lecture about not mistreating the new one; such are the crosses I have to bear!

Anyway, for a few hours I regressed to my inner hippie. I think you are allowed to do that at (whisper) fifty one! There is nowhere else like Camden where you can mix with such a wide range of nationalities and alternative individuals, not even Brick Lane or Soho. It was a great day out, and one I aim to repeat at some stage in the future, hopefully when perhaps I’m more cash rich!

It's nice to be normal (sized!)!

There was an amazingly tall man on the tube today. He was so tall, that standing in the middle of the carriage he had to stoop to prevent banging his head on the roof. He must have been 7’6” at least.

Life must be extremely difficult if you are an extreme physical size, whether that is too tall, short, thin or fat. Clothes must be difficult to come by, if you’re over 6’3” you are too long for a standard bed and so must have to sleep curled up all the time, if you’re too fat and heavy you cannot walk properly nor can you fit into standard seating on trains, planes, in waiting rooms or even at home, and if you are too small things like counters and tables will be too high for you to comfortably sit or stand at them to work, cook, eat or anything else.

Of course we can do nothing about our height, and for some poor individuals they can do nothing about their weight as they have a hormonal imbalance of some sort. Fatties who are that way through overindulgence or just eating the wrong food deserve no sympathy.

Now don’t worry, this is not another blog ranting about being overweight and trying to diet. But seeing this guy today has made me think that although I might be a bit heavier than I would like, I am actually pretty lucky to be a relatively normal size, height and shape and how much easier than others my life is as a result.

The government and the NHS spend a lot of time and money lecturing us about our ‘five a day’, smoking and generally doing more exercise and having a healthier lifestyle (ironically, as I write this, I am eating a McDonalds sausage and egg McMuffin with a hash brown, but I did have a coffee and not a sugary coke to accompany it). Perhaps instead they should show us pictures of the clinically obese or anorexic and list the ailments these people have now and have a high likelihood of experiencing in the future. Yes, that sort of thing is already on the telly (usually Channel Four with a snappy title like “Britain’s Fattest Woman” or “Freaky Fat Kids”[OK, I made that one up, but it sounds like fun!]) but it is presented as a sort of modern day circus freak show, and we are led to believe that these people are unusual or unique and clearly they have decided to capitalise on their unhealthiness by getting a bit of telly money before they prematurely pop their clogs.

But the sad thing is they are not unusual. You only have to look around you when you go shopping to see how many of us are overweight and unfit. A few weeks ago, I was having a coffee in Costa in Redhill, watching the world go by through the window. Suddenly, a very fat woman in a wheelchair was pushed past by her son. She was coughing dreadfully, smoking a cigarette and upbraiding him in a loud voice about getting to a nearly shop more quickly. After a short distance, she lost patience and got up out of the chair and walked the rest, waddling along on fat ankles which spilled over the top of her shoes. Her thighs were so fat she could not walk properly. She went into the bakers (otherwise known as the pie shop)! Clearly she was not disabled, just grossly overweight and making her health worse by ‘fagging it large’, as our kids would say. I know this will be controversial, but I believe that these people should be denied healthcare (unless they have cancer - and even then it is debateable if it has been caused by a lifestyle choice) and forced to lose weight.

So overall I feel pretty lucky to have OK health (problems with ruptured disk and dodgy knees aside). I do my best with my diet and try to eat fruit and veg each day although not as much as I should. I get a moderate amount of exercise, but not enough. As you know, I am trying to do better. I am lucky enough to be exactly average height for a woman in the 21^st century (5’5” if you’re interested) and be well nourished. I can fit into my seat on the train and on the plane, and the sofa at home doesn’t sag when I sit down.

So I’m doing OK. Let’s hope I am rewarded with a long life – fingers crossed! (By the way, I am assuming you share my sentiment there about my long life. If you don’t, I don’t want to know!).

It's my birthday !!

It’s my birthday today.

I am rather like a small child when it comes to birthdays, and see them as an opportunity to celebrate with expensive presents and lots of chocolate cake and cream. Oh, and wine as well!

Last year was a big zero birthday (yes, thirty again!) and I was spoiled rotten, with a hog roast party in the garden, flying lesson in a light aircraft and some nice pressies. I had a wonderful time but obviously you can’t do that every year and so this time it will be rather more low key.

I’m not sure what we will be doing as I write, but we both have the day off and if the weather is kind we will probably take a trip to Camden Market with some spending money and then a nice meal in the evening. If it’s raining I think we may go to the National Maritime Museum to see the Canaletto painting of the pageant on the Thames that they have on display for the first time in the UK since it was painted in 1752!

And I have chosen my main present, which is a 160GB ipod in silver (I wanted a black one but they don’t make them any more – or so the guy in Comet [“You know where to come”] said, but them perhaps he had lots of silver ones to shift!) with lots of room for all my music and capacity to download a few films for boring plane journeys.

It’s nice having a summer birthday. I feel really sorry for people that have winter birthdays, especially those very close to Christmas, as it makes for a very long gap between celebrations and pressies and it’s never possible to have a party in the garden (unless you ask all your guests to come in ski gear to keep warm!). Having a birthday in the summer means my gifts are nicely spaced out about six months apart and more often than not it is nice enough to at least barbeque at lunch time.

Of course another birthday marks a time when (as my cheerful mother used to say) you are just one year older and closer to the grave! But today’s 50 is yesterday’s 40 and the day before’s 30, such are the advances of healthcare, nutrition and life expectancy, so I am not quite as pessimistic as her. I fully intend to enjoy many more years and – good luck permitting and dreadful diseases avoided - live well into my eighties, act disgracefully and embarrass my children constantly. That means I ought to be able to expect at least 30 to 35 more birthdays on which to be indulged and the centre of attention, which sounds fine.

And I have many more things I want to do! I want to live abroad for a few years as a leisurely retiree, I want to write creatively for fun and for money, I want to paint and I want to be able to live life for a while instead of the treadmill of working with the brief respites of holidays. I want to travel (but in luxury, not roughing it), experience new things and meet new people. So I need to live a whole lot longer.

So I am proposing to enjoy today completely and have high expectations of being spoiled again and spending some quality time with The Hubby doing nice things. And I will, yet again, make resolutions to change my life for the better – pay off debts, enjoy more quality time together with people I care about, get fitter and eat less. I said the same last year and the year before and have failed dismally. But this year I will be better, honestly, I will, or I am painfully aware I may not live long enough to do all those nice things I have ambitions about.

And that would be a shame!