Back Soon...

Just trying out a little image change with the blog. Witch was getting a little fed up with that tired old pink and dreary claret. A little reinvention never hurt anyone...


I'll be back soon, dears. Back with a whole new cornucopia of theatre-related loveliness.


Ciao for now...

A Visit From The Mail: Petronella Wyatt Versus West End Witch

Oh dear. I was afraid of this...

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1220716/Holy-fishnets-My-night-naughty-nun-Sister-Act.html

A few weeks ago, the cast was rounded up after warm-up to be informed that Petronella Wyatt from the Daily Mail would be at the theatre the following day. In a stunt organised by our keen-witted publicity department, she was to come and do a "Day in the Life" piece about Sister Act. Alarm bells were already ringing, but we were assured it would be a sympathetic report designed to promote the show. Any publicity, and all that.

Now, I'm all for a bit of artistic license. Where's a good story, without a bit of embellishment? Heaven knows I'm always tarting up reality for the sake of a cheap laugh. But what I read this morning was so far removed from the truth that I simply couldn't resist setting a few facts straight...

Everything is just how I imagined it. Someone is plonking at a piano and two girls in hotpants, who are auditioning to be nuns, are hoofing on the stage.
Choreographer Ben Clare tells them: 'Great. Thanks. You can join in two weeks.' Talk about fast-tracking holy vows.

Who are these mysterious hotpant-ed girls? Why are they the only people in the whole of showbiz to turn up? And how have they managed to bag a top West End gig without so much as a second audition? Witch herself had to endure six auditions for Sister Act, including a hideous two-and-a-half hour dance call involving improvisation (shudder) and a terrifying singing final onstage at the Shaftsbury in front of Alan Menken and fifty equally scary people. Far be it from me to cast aspersions on our dance captain Ben, but I'm not sure he has all the hire-and-fire power she is suggesting...

Emma introduces me to the gathering by saying: 'As you know, this is Petronella from the Daily Mail who will be in the show tonight.'
There follows the sort of silence that there used to be in court rooms before
hanging judges would pronounce sentence.

If my memory serves me correctly, we all welcomed her warmly whilst she stared blankly around the stage, saying nothing.

We rehearse the scenes in which I appear, including the finale of Act One.

We rehearse the scenes in which Petronella appears, not including the finale of Act One, which took us six weeks to learn and perfect and would be impossible for even the most accomplished performer to grasp in twenty minutes.

We sing Raise Your Voice and Take Me To Heaven.

We sing Raise Your Voice and Take Me To Heaven; Petronella does not.

Time's winged chariot hurries by. Suddenly I am a nun eating dinner with the other nuns as the set becomes the convent. Then Deloris is teaching us how to sing and, as if only five minutes have passed, the first act is over.

I don't know what show Petronella was doing that night, but it certainly wasn't the one I was doing. She comes onstage twice — sitting at a bar in the background of the first scene, and revolving on with the nuns to sing a few out-of-tune lines of Latin for about thirty seconds.

Behind the slider, I say to her, "Are you alright? Excited?" Petronella stares at me vacantly and says nothing. Another nun jokes, "Have you learnt your lines?" Petronella stares at her vacantly and says nothing.

The thing I find so unbelievable irritating about all of this (aside from the fact that none of it actually happened), is the way in which she has made it all sound such a breeze. Any soggy old journalist with theatrical aspirations can just walk into a theatre, have half a day's rehearsal and perfectly execute what in actual fact takes months of hard graft, sweat and injury.

As for all the costumes being from "Primark or the cast's own", well... yes, you've got me there, Petronella. Fortunately all seventeen nuns happened to have identical white-sequined habits lurking in their wardrobes at home and the black ones were bought job lot from Oxford Street.

I can't comment on Sheila Hancock's "basilisk stare" because I wasn't there, but I can only assume it was:

a. Deserved

or

b. Imagined.

All too soon we reach the finale. We wave and laugh and sing Spread The Love Around. Suddenly, I have a lump in my throat.
The curtain goes down and the audience roars. Even if I have not, the audience has performed beautifully. Behind the curtain, my fellow nuns and I embrace. Tears spring to my eyes as the audience claps wildly.

When Act II arives, we are informed that Petronella has a prior engagement and will not be appearing in her other rehearsed scene. In fact, she has already left the building.

Wot No Phil: Sister Act Does This Morning

Hello, chickens. Sorry I'm so slack on the blogs these days. It's a busy life, what with trying to edit a ropey old first draft into an internationally-bestselling debut novel, as well as eight shows a week and more time in the Palladium rehearsal room than is necessary — or indeed, healthy. It's like dancing in a dirty old sauna. Even when you open the windows you're blasted with hot air from the generators outside.

Moving on quickly to This Morning.

If ever there was a topic you could move onto without having to fashion an appropriate link, it would be morning television. They do it themselves, every five minutes. Phil and Fer—um, Holly can be interviewing some distraught soul one minute about some dreadful catastrophe that has befallen them, only to switch glossily to camera two to introduce a ridiculous item about canine fashion. The programme coordinators never seem to get the order quite right. I know the age-old device of splicing up tragedy with comedy for greater dramatic effect, yadda yadda yadda, but still, there's only so crestfallen you can legitimately appear when telling several million viewers about their chance to win 25k.

Anyway, today was Friday, so it was an Eamonn/Ruth day...

Right, let's get this one out of the way or it'll hang over the rest of my latest entry like a black cloud of unspoken resentment.

I was disappointed. There, I've said it. Don't judge me. I know you all get it, that sinking feeling when you switch on the telly at half ten for an hour or so of guilty chit-chat pleasure and realise that it's not a Phil-and-Holly day. It's not just me, is it?

However, the disappointment faded slightly when breakfast arrived. You can always tell a group of musical theatre actors in a TV studio. We'll be the ones making the most of the free food. We're not used to it. The television stars drift in and out at their leisure, sometimes only turning up three minutes before they're due to be interviewed (you know who I'm talking about, Mitchell and Webb). They give their finest colloquial chat for five minutes and then waltz out again without so much as a bacon sarnie. The actresses are too busy trying to stay waify to squeeze in a pain au chocolat, and most male actors prefer to maintain a self-styled air of mystic importance on black coffee and nicotine. Besides, they're all so used to catering and runners attending to their every whim that they barely even notice it all.

Not so with us turns.

I remember a chilly afternoon in January when, after a particularly grueling morning of rehearsals, the company manager brought biscuits in for us as a treat. Nothing special, just a few custard creams and the odd Hobnob.

It was carnage.

You can only imagine the excitement of a full English at eight o'clock in the morning. Catering didn't know what had hit them. "Chocolate, before the performance?" "No, but I will have egg, sausage, beans, tomato and two rounds of toast."

I avoided the make-up police successfully, having had a particularly nasty run in with them on GMTV when I tried to convince Linda, one of our wiggies, that the blusher on my cheeks was just a "natural glow". Apparently nuns don't wear make-up. Neither do they break into disco songs and shake their booties every five minutes, I tried to argue, but she wasn't having it. I had to console myself by keeping my pearls on under my habit. A small act of rebellion, but it made me feel better.

No, this time I dodged the baby wipe test with all the finesse of Jack Dawkins on a pickpocketing mission. I even got away with a small amount of natural lip liner and a dab of Eight Hour Cream. Mission accomplished.

Our item seemed to go well. We were following an interview with Sheila and Patina. I'm sure the last thing Patina felt like doing before singing live on national television to a quiet backing track was telling Ruth and Eamonn how she was finding life in London, but she coped very well, before legging it to the other side of the studio to start the number with us in record time.

It was over very quickly. I had a minor skirmish with the dry ice machine, but managed to bat off great swathes of smoke with my habit sleeves. Finally, that horror of a frock has a use.

Eamonn rushed over to us at the end of the programme.

"Girls, girls! Can I get a picture? It's for my mum. She'll appreciate the nun thing."

I was surprised how pleasant he was. Chatted to us for a few minutes, located the Catholics amongst us and compared tales of convent school life — the highs, the lows, the beatings... No sign of Ruth, though.

I bumped into Jason Gardiner on the way out. He was very charming — a kindred spirit, a fellow twirly. I wanted to mention that he knew the Wanderer, but couldn't think of the best way to work "I think you worked with my fiancé in Beirut" into the conversation.

Maybe I should have made like This Morning and done an inappropriate link...

The Curse of the Chipbelly

Witch has another illness to add to the list, having suffered profusely at its menacing hands on Saturday...

Chipbelly.



Well, I'll call it Chipbelly, but it's really a blanket term for having eaten too much before a show. It's most common on a matinee day, but can occur at any time.

The conditions have to be right, of course. At Grease or Mamma Mia for example, with their strict back-to-back regimes, it just wouldn't happen. The turn around between performances is so quick that after the matinee you find yourself getting out of costume to the tune of Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your half-hour call...

Harsh.

And no time to stuff anything more down than a couple of biscuits.

Another contending factor is the choreography. Attempting a Chipbelly in a piece by Rob Ashford or Gillian Lynn would be foolhardy. You'd simply be sick. Trust me, I've tried it.

The final hurdle is your costume. A major hindrance to the cultivation of the perfect Chipbelly. Anything involving whalebone is a no-no, as are hooks and eyes or any sort of corsetry. Lycra is definitely out.

No, what you need is a show with not too much choreography, with nicely loose-fitting costumes and about an hour in between the matinee and evening...

In other words, Sister Act.

On Saturday, the girls in my dressing room and I decided to go for fish and chips. We had been planning it since Wednesday and were really looking forward to it. Oddly, half of the building seemed to have the same idea, and the queue outside the chippy looked like the turnout for an open audition at Pineapple.

We thought we'd be conservative, sharing chips and ordering small portions. No need to overdo it. We still had another show to do, after all. Best not be greedy...

By five to seven not a chip was left, no morsel of batter could be seen and five pots of mushy peas had been licked clean. We looked at each other nervously.

"I feel alright," said Jennie cautiously, as if she couldn't believe it.

"Me too," said Helen, a little over-confidently. There was an air of doom hanging over us. We sat in silence for five minutes, hoping to escape the inevitable...

And then it came.

The half was called. I tried to move, but it was as if Derren Brown himself had bound me to the chair with the power of his mind. Nothing happened. I tried again, managing to unseat only my left buttock as my right one remained rooted to the chair. I heard a little whimper from the other side of the room.

"Oh...God..." said Helen. "Spoke...too...soon."

Gradually, with much sighing and grunting, we started to get ready for the second show. Poppers and zips were groaning under the weight of our stomachs. Mutterings of "Never again" and "Whose idea was it to get fish and chips" floated around the dressing room. This did not bode well.

It seemed we were not alone. I passed Tom Goodridge in the corridor, clearly anything but ready to go onstage, his eyes rolling back into his lolling head as he grasped the wall.

"Two...jumbo...sausages..." was all he could muster by way of explanation.

It appeared that most people had succumbed to the lure of Chipbelly. At any given point during the show I could virtually guarantee there would be a nun, somewhere on the stage, taking advantage of a moment facing the back to blow her cheeks out exhaustedly and try to gain momentum again. The dance numbers felt as if we were wading through curry sauce. Getting a big enough breath to sing was a chore. Even bending over to put a pair of tights on was a struggle.

Suffice to say, tomorrow I'll be having a sandwich...

What's Up, Doc?

Witch has developed a sudden interest in medical matters...

There are numerous ailments suffered by performers that sadly go undiagnosed and untreated, so I thought I would bring some of them to the public's attention. Education is the first step, after all. Here are some of the most common theatre afflictions:

Mugging

A psychological disorder which renders the sufferer unable to control his or her onstage facial movements.

Marking

At the opposite end of the medical spectrum from Mugging, this condition usually rears its head during dance numbers. The afflicted party will lack energy and appear listless, easily distracted and slightly behind the music. Movements will be small and unfocused. Only two known cures for Marking currently exist: the threat of a clean-up call or an announcement that the producer is watching.


Don't pop the head, Cassie.

Sowing the seed

Also known as How-to-get-a-day-off-when-there's-nothing-actually-wrong-with-you. A common affliction, particularly amongst lazier performers. Usually involves a pained expression, limp and/or cough, loud request for Neurofen, doubling over, refusal to eat and a brave "No, I'll soldier on" attitude. Precedes a day off.
Anyone who has swung a show will have an acute ability to spot the seed-sowers, but it takes a strong dance captain to weed them out.

Saturdayitis

A medical condition that renders the sufferer unable or reluctant to come into work on a Saturday. Often accompanied by Friday seed-sowing. Cf. Midweek Matinee-itis.

Phoning it in

A polite way of demonstrating one's apathy towards the show.

Midweek Matinee-itis

Why should I come into work more than once a day?

Corpsing

Probably one of the most common theatre ailments; certainly one of the most well-known. Often mistakenly associated with dead bodies, corpsing is actually the inability to control laughter when onstage. Can be caused by anything from a rogue piece of set to a fart noise from the wings. The effects of corpsing correlate directly with an actor's self-control and can be calculated by the simple formula C=E (s x S), where E is the event causing the mirth, s the amount of self-control mustered by the actor and S how high the stakes are at the time of corpsing, ie. how serious the moment in the piece.

Inappropriate Notes Tourette Syndrome

The inability of an actor to refrain from giving fellow turns advice on their performance.

Pulling Focus

An umbrella term encompassing many disorders, from the classic hand-clap-and-rub-before-one's-line, to general ensemble mugging.

Don't Pop The Head, Cassie

Focus-pulling for dancers. Often accompanied by extreme arrogance. Very difficult to treat.

Witch Returns

So, after two weeks of Mediterranean bliss, Witch finally made it back to work last night...

I was a little concerned that I might have forgotten the show, after so long a break. I'm not known for my long-term retention of steps. Give or take a fortnight and things I've had in my brain for six months will start seeping out of one ear.

Lipstick frequently entertains me with her renditions of numbers from a job we did five years ago together. She remembers every kick, every turn, every top C that has ever come out of her. I humour her and watch politely, secretly wondering if I ever performed the same steps, or if she's just improvising very well. My memory is not what it was.

Of course, some things never leave you - All That Jazz from Chicago, the jive from Grease, or anything that has ever been drilled into you by Karen Bruce. I can also still remember the first jazz routine I ever learnt at college, oddly. Whether I can still do it is another question...

It seems that a fortnight, though, was not long enough for me to forget the show, although God knows I tried. The only problem I had was that people seemed to have forgotten how big I was (having been blessed with the teeny tiny Kate Coysten for a couple of weeks) and spread out accordingly. Gaps had become narrower, spaces smaller and I felt the jostle of shoulders and elbows at every turn. I felt like a full-on Blundernun, Bella Emberg-style. Not good for one's self-esteem.

Aside from that, very little seemed to have happened in my absence. It seemed there had been another skirmish with Equity over an additional EPK recording (which thankfully I missed) and more dramas about the West End Agreement, which could perhaps more aptly be named as the West End Unfair Buyout, but I won't get all political on you now, chickens. It's so boring you'd be asleep before I got through the first sentence.

Oh, and I did nearly miss a cue because I was engrossed in my book. I'm reading The Historian, by Catherine Kostova. Terrifying and gripping all at the same time. Fine for holiday, but now I'm not sure if it's unholy or blasphemous to read about vampires whilst dressed as a nun. Still, it's compulsive reading. I can't seem to put it down.

It's only fiction, but I keep my rosary to hand, just in case...

West End Live

West End Live...

It's a bit of a new phenomenon, this. A strange outdoors-y affair. London theatre's attempt at a festival, a chance for the producers to wring some free publicity out of their shows.

When I was there four years ago, it was a tame affair. A smattering of people, hardly enough to call a crowd, consisting mainly of proud mums, diehard fans and passers-by who had halfheartedly stopped on their way through Leicester Square to see what all the racket was.

Saturday was a different story. Thousands of people had crammed themselves into the relatively small space to show their support. The Wanderer came to show his support (or rather, bring my packed lunch that I left on the kitchen sideboard) and found he couldn't get anywhere near the stage, having to content himself with a rather inhibited view from the other side of the square behind a giant Postman Pat.

It was definitely the place to be on Saturday morning.

I felt a little bit like a child at a dance competition as we piled into the coach outside the Palladium, already in full costume and wigs. It was Aunt Sally's Ballet Academy all over again, en route to the annual Eastbourne Dance Festival. All we were missing was a bottle of Ellnet and a carton of Um Bongo.

People stared as we drove down Regent Street, teenagers laughed, children waved... We could have been on an open top bus going to switch the Christmas lights on, for all the attention we attracted. I felt a strange pressure to put my wimple on correctly, even though usually I leave it till the very last second. (It leaves a crease in my forehead, and who needs more of those?)

We were quickly herded onto the stage, sandwiched neatly between Jodie Prenger and the cast of We Will Rock You. For some reason we were to be introduced by Biggins. I suppose it needed someone pretty spangly to contend with a show like ours...

After his patter, he bizarrely chose a seat at the side of the stage, crossed his legs and sat back to watch the action like a oddly camp Brechtian Chorus, tapping his foot and grinning over at us encouragingly. I had to fight an irresistible urge to drag him up and start do-si-dos-ing with him.

The sound was a bit am-dram, but apart from that, everything went well. Alli Harding did a great job of standing in for Julia Sutton, despite our concerns that she might repeat her performance at the press launch when she forgot the words and sang four lines in what can only have been Gaelic.

I looked up West End Live on the internet. As far as I could see (and I researched it a long time), it's purely a promotional gig, designed to encourage people to go and see shows. Performers are required as part of their contracts to do a certain amount of publicity unpaid. Fair enough. We're happy to promote our shows if it keeps them open and flourishing. Not a bad cause, if you don't compare it to any serious charities. But I couldn't help thinking I'd be happier to work for free if I knew someone else other than the producer was going to benefit. It would be nice if the bosses would stump up some cash for something like the Variety Club, or the Unicorn Theatre. For the families who can't afford sixty five quid a ticket.

The Broadway community has a different fundraising event almost every week. We do a bit here, but not as much as we could. West End Live would be the perfect opportunity to give something back.

The Witch Returns

Oh God oh God oh God. Has it really been a whole month?

I'm so sorry, Witchlings. I have no idea where the days have gone.

One day, chickens, one day, I'll effortlessly be able to churn out a daily blog entry, just like the old days. It's poor, I know - sometimes not even managing one a week, but I've never felt such a lack of time as I do at the moment.

Still, I thought, once we've opened I'll have time. Loads of the stuff. Seconds and minutes dripping off me like warm honey. Hours oozing by like treacle. All those delicious daytimes to sit and scribble to my heart's content. I might even get the novel finished in a few months.

Naive.

No sooner had we opened than the rehearsals kicked in again. Understudy calls, clean up calls, rehearsals for the cast recording, not to mention West End Live and GMTV... An endless list of reasons to bring us in early. I reckon I've got about a month of it left. The end is in sight...

So, I'll do a quick run-through of the main events, just to catch you all up.

Right, what's first? Oh, press night, if I can remember that far back...

It went well, I think. Opening night audiences are a strange breed, a bizarre concoction of businessmen and cronies, crazy fans and cast members' families. It makes for an odd evening. Laughs are thrown up unexpectedly from concentrated parts of the auditorium, mainly where friends and relatives are stationed. Some gags fall on huge applause, others get caught on passing tumbleweed.

Whoopi came, or should I say, was shoved somewhat reluctantly onstage at the end of it to shrieks and whistles from the audience. None of us knew exactly what she was going to do, but I had a feeling it would be a talk about how the film came about, what she thought of the musical and how exciting it all was.

Instead, however, she merely gestured to Patina and Sheila and made them bow several times, holding their hands and pushing them forwards. Not a word did she utter. Not a single sentence of endorsement or opinion, no stories of life on set with the original nuns, nothing.

Had Whoopi become a mute? Where was the chatty, witty woman we met in rehearsals? Was she under some sort of silencing clause in her contract? Did she hate the show? Or had the Palladium worked its showbiz magic and left her speechless with wonder at our good ol' British theatre? Who knows.

The party was good, from what I remember. We managed to befriend one of the waiters and successfully got us table service all evening, including all the best food and a never-ending supply of champagne. It made for a bleary-eyed show the following day, though, with more than half the nuns looking as if they might throw up at any given moment.

GMTV was fun...

The studio is surprisingly tiny. It looks sprawling on television, all luxurious sofas and Habitat vases big enough to pop your children in. In real life it's about the same size as my living room. When the presenters do the inter-department chit-chat between items, it looks as if they're calling to each other across a small park. In reality, Penny Smith is practically sitting on Andrew Castle's lap for most of the news hour.

It was a bit boring miming a song that we belt out every night, but the GMTV studios do not support live music. Go figure.

New weather presenter Kirsty McCabe caused quite a stir.

"Where's she from, anyway?" inquired Jennie Dale.

"She used to be weathergirl on the BBC," offered someone.

"What?" said Jennie. "She's a lesbian?"

Everyone stopped.

No, weathergirl, not with a girl," I said.

I'd better stop now and do West End Live tomorrow, chickens, before this blog spans more than a page and starts to look like an industry publication. I promise I'll be on it as of today, though. In fact, to quote a phrase that's spreading round the West End quicker than cocaine at a press night party, I'll be all over it.

Curtain Call

Witch is dizzy from bowing...

So, we've redone the end of the show. About time. I know the curtain call is way down on the "to do" list, but it was getting just a little embarrassing, straggling on all higgledy-piggledy like Aunt Sally's Ballet Academy annual display. A few half-baked bows to a piece of music that ran out thirty seconds too early was not going to cut it.

After two weeks of this increasingly awkward proceedure, I began to wonder if it would ever get changed, or if the creatives had forgotten about us and we were doomed to a finale of embarrassing entrances and excruciating exits.

I failed to remember one thing: Anthony Van Laast.

The king of the curtain call, the don of the encore, the man who single-handedly invented the megamix (remember Joseph?), Anthony Van Laast is a force to be reckoned with when it comes to the matter of stooping one's head to the merry tune of applause.

We started off in the usual way - ensemble, followed by semi-demis, principals and top turn. Nothing new there. Every West End and Broadway show seems to follow the same pattern these days. We dutifully followed the formula before piling into the wings, relieved at such a quick and painless curtain call.

But what was this? A false exit? Surely not?

We were herded back on stage quicker than Liza to the bar. Round two of the bows. Okay, fair enough, I conceded. The show gets a standing ovation most evenings. Let's not be selfish here.

After the seventh bow, I was beginning to feel a little like a weeble. But surely this must be it now?

Almost.

Just a quick verse of Raise Your Voice, and you're done, said the voice over the God mic.

Okay, a simple reprise. I could handle that. It was the show's signature tune, after all. I wouldn't begrudge them that. But that really must be it. He wouldn't make us do any more. We finished and turned to go.

Onemorebow! screamed the God mic.

I think I did nine bows in total. And that was just me. So, with all the principals, including several for Sheila and Patina, the figure must have surely reached the twenties. Maybe even the thirties.

I'll count tonight. Maybe I'll have a little sweepstake. Answers on a postcard, please...

Nuns Play for Chelsea

Well, that was a first. West End Witch playing football at Stamford Bridge. A peculiar day...



I made a comment some weeks ago about the instant comedy points that can be scored from wearing a habit. Part of the show's success must be down to the fact that nuns doing anything is funny. People will laugh at anything you do, provided you are "Y-wimpled well".

It seems that this hilarity even extends to the football field. Joop van den Ende (our producer) agrees and today had us all lined up for a footie lesson with his pal, Guus Hiddink. Apparently he's a big deal in the football world. I'm not sure what Guus or any of the Chelsea officials knew what to make of a bunch of over-excited nuns descending onto the field, but they took it with good humour.

Witch didn't exactly shine on the pitch...

Let's face it, I'm more croquet-on-the-lawn and cucumber sandwiches than muddy shins and sliding tackles. I left it to some of the more skilled players. Emma Woods scored a spectacular goal, to the thuggish chants of "Woods-y! Woods-y!" Verity Quade gave us some Beckham-worthy free kicks, too, and Allison Harding was like a brick wall against penalties.

What a good idea for publicity. I don't even like football and I was impressed. I thought it would be hard to top the abseiling nuns, but I think we did.

I wonder what stunt the marketing team will come up with next. It had better be good. After all, one more and it's a hat-trick...

Cut and Paste

So, by Wednesday night Sister Act's opening will have changed quite dramatically. True fans will have to come to every single preview to catch each version of the show before it is lost forever to musical theatre history.

It won't be the first change. I was told by a very reliable source (the musical supervisor himself, don'tcha know) that something like seventeen numbers have been cut or rewritten in the four years since Sister Act was first reborn as a musical.

Seventeen.

Got me thinking. I'm halfway through writing my first novel. Well, I say halfway. I have actually finished it insomuch as I've got from beginning to end. Unfortunately it needs so much editing that it's going to take me at least as long again to get it into a state I feel happy for anyone to read, let alone think about publishing. Part of the reason for my starting a blog was to make me braver at publishing immediately. There's something exhilarating about writing, editing and hitting "Publish", all in the space of an hour. Blogging is the fast food of literature. Write and go.

It's been good for me. I'll be starting back on the novel (as well as getting a few more blogs out than I've managed lately) as soon as rehearsals have calmed down a bit, but if I'm honest, the prospect of such a huge edit frightens me. My blog feels friendly, colloquial. The novel's a different story (sorry for the excruciating pun). It seems more serious; intimidatingly so. When I'm editing the book, I can spend hours agonising over a semi-colon. That slightly unnecessary one in the previous sentence, for example.

I know. What a loser. It'll never get finished at this rate.

There's also the small matter of making quite a substantial change to the ending, and adding a new but vital twist to the plot, not to mention the fact that about two-thirds of the way through I decided a character wasn't working so I just stopped writing him with no explanation. I've yet to go back and remove him from the rest of the story.

It was scaring me more than I cared to admit.

But today I had a new thought. If the likes of Alan Menken and Glenn Slater aren't afraid to throw material away - material that some writers could only dream about creating - than I am not, either.

Blue pencil at the ready.

First Night

I wasn't entirely sure the first preview was going to happen. After a reasonably smooth tech, everything suddenly started to go wrong on the dress.

1. Kabuki didn't drop at the top of the show

2. Revolve ceased to revolve half way through act I

3. Lift under the stage broke with a drop and a loud bang (whilst I was in it)

4. I fell arse over tit in a pile of sequins

Not a promising start.

So you can imagine how twitchy we all were as we listened through the dressing room speakers and heard the rackety audience filing in as the orchestra tuned up. The flicking of programme pages competing against the crunching of Maltesers, underscored by chatter and the gentle tightening of strings. Nerve-inducing noises if ever I heard them.

I sat behind the curtain at the top of the show, wondering what to expect. Wondering what the people the other side were expecting. Was the show even any good? I mean, I thought it was good, but what did I know? There could be two-and-a-half thousand people out there who might disagree. What if we sucked?

My worries were quickly allayed.

The kabuki dropped to deafening applause. As Patina stepped out, the audience erupted like a football crowd. No less than she deserved. She worked them like clay, oozing sass and style and delicious vunerability.

One thing I had forgotten lately was how funny the show was. For four months we had performed only to the people who watched us every day. Pretty boring for both sides. It had begun to feel just a little stagnant. The jokes felt laboured and trite and the show had less atmosphere than the moon.

You can imagine my delight when Claire Greenway practically stopped the show with her first line. It must have been a relief for her. To play a part where your sole purpose is to make people laugh must be pretty difficult without an audience. Claire has endured four months without an audience. Now she had four months' worth of Saturday night at the Comedy Store all in one night. Now, her every word, every breath were funny.

As each laugh topped the previous one, I rediscovered my favourite moments - the moments I liked before I had heard them seventy-five times. I waited for the laughs when Julia Sutton finished her verse in How I got The Calling - and was greeted with a round of applause. In fact, Julia managed to get a round for almost every line.

It was fun. Like hearing my favourite joke being told to someone new and waiting for their reaction. Sheila Hancock was on fire as the Mother Superior, dry as bone and with sharper timing than Big Ben. They loved her.

As for the musical numbers, Take Me To Heaven was exposive and Spread The Love was positively contagious. I think Raise Your Voice actually raised the roof.

The only thing that put me off slightly was having the Wanderer in the front row. The only ticket he could get was A10 in the stalls - to my absolute horror. Bang in the centre as well. He was so close to the musical director Nick Skillbeck that all through the show various members of the cast kept pointing him out to me on the monitors. Thankfully, he behaved himself. I didn't catch him yawning, although at one point I did see him biting his nails, even though he assures me he has given up the habit.

It was nice to have him there, though. We scurried down to Ronnie Scott's afterwards to celebrate. The nuns were out in force, downing the wine like it was their last ever communion and shrieking like they didn't have to belt top Gs first thing in the morning. What a fantastic evening.

I don't want to speak too soon, chickens, but I think it's going to be a hit.

Abseiling Nuns

Spotted: seven nuns abseiling from the roof of the Palladium, in four-inch heels and red lipstick. Now, that's my kind of nun.

Sorry it's been so long, chickens - for the last couple of weeks I've known nothing but the deep, dark bowels of the theatre. I've barely seen daylight. We open tomorrow. After that I'll be back on tip top form with the usual witchy observations about the glamorous goings-on of the glittering West End.

Party's in Ronnie Scott's tomorrow night. Can't go full-out glam; I'm reserving all that jazz for press night. But Mr. Scott deserves a little effort, I think. Hopefully I'll be able to sweet-talk them into letting the Wanderer in too. I'm sure they will. He's very well-behaved, for a bloke.

Last-Minute Changes

Witch apologises for the lack of info lately. We've been working twelve-hour days and I really don't know my arse from my elbow at the moment.

So, what's been going on? Well, the big news is that the opening number of the show is potentially cut. I'm not sure how it will be replaced, but the existing one is almost certainly out.

Of course, there have been a few annoyed mutterings from cast members - understandably, as many of them have lost a number - and whisperings of how the show will begin without Studio 54. Are they going to replace it? Or just adapt the show without it?

We start previews in little over a week.

At first I felt more than a small stab of panic. How would I learn (and manage to get right) an entire new number in just a few days? It has taken weeks to get the rest of the show together. We haven't got a lot of time.

But then I thought about it. How lucky am I to be part of something where the people in charge are not afraid to lose something that's not working? It's a cliche, but they're making a brave decision for the "greater good" of the piece.

Shows in the past have suffered because the creatives panic during the tech.

We open in a few days. It's too late to change anything.

Things get left as they are for fear of not getting the show finished on time and everything becomes all rather...well, average.

We may be running behind, but we're going to have the best show at the end of it. I have faith.

Sister Act Pop Video

I can't believe I haven't put this on yet. Apologies, witchlings. I've got some more for you for next week, too, so stay tuned...


PS. How hot does Patina look?

The Paul O'Grady Show

Witch is considering a career in TV after her appearance on the Paul O'Grady show...

I awoke yesterday morning in eager anticipation of a fun-filled, celeb-packed day at the London Television Studios. That place has long intrigued me, ever since I walked past one day on my way to the Oxo Tower and saw Christine Hamilton doing a live televised survival course on the roof for This Morning.

TV is a different world. It's all "security" this, and "have you got your pass" that. You can't even go to the loo without being collared by some well-meaning runner. It's not their fault. They're under order to chaperone you to within an inch of your life.

They also seem to be under strict instruction to feed you at every opportunity. It's a good idea. Those stroppy celebs don't like to be kept waiting, especially when there's a sea of low-grade paps waiting outside for them. The TV people cleverly provide food as a pacifier. The dressing room is a cornucopia of cakes, biscuits, sandwiches, tea, coffee, juices...

Let's be honest. It probably goes to waste when the likes of Angelina and Paris come in to promote their latest ventures.

Not so today. Every morsel went.

It's easy to spot the theatre people in a TV studio. We're the ones stuffing our faces and putting biscuits up our sleeves for later, you know - just in case. We're not used to such spoils.

I was hoping to get a glimpse of Phil and Fern thrashing it out over wages, or at the very least Jane McDonald and Carol McGiffin mid-slanging match in the cafeteria, but the most I got was Justin Lee Collins sweeping grandly down to the first floor in a pair of outsize sunglasses. (FYI we were in a sunless stairwell miles from the entrance, ample time for him to have removed them. No. He meant to wear those shades indoors.)

The team at The Paul O'Grady Show were still cobbling together a mini-church set for us when we arrived at the studio. I was grateful for the camera rehearsal. Having lived and breathed the musty air of theatre for the last ten years, I found it difficult not to stare directly into the lense. I even got a bizarre urge to pull crazy faces and wave, but thankfully I managed to control it.

Paul O'Grady loved our rendition of Raise Your Voice and the audience seemed to as well, although it can be difficult to tell with a telly crowd because they'll applaud someone blowing their nose. Not so much a sign of true appreciation as an eagerness to be noticed.

Look out for me, chickens. I'm the one in the habit.

The London Palladium

Okay, so I'm a few days late, chickens. I do apologise. There's just so much going on at the theatre that it's been impossible to write anything...

Oh, and just for the record, the tech is going very well, thank you. Friends in other shows keep calling and asking me what's going on, why are we so behind. Are they going to have to delay press night? Apparently it's spread round the West End quicker than when Richard Dreyfuss got the sack from The Producers that we're running ten days late, the set's not working and we're going to open late...

Not so. The set changes are seamless; beautiful, even. There's an air of relaxed calm about the place and the faces dotted sporadically amongst the sea of equipment in the stalls are contented. Carline, our director, manages to stay buoyant even when things are perhaps a little slower than anticipated. No, all things considered, a good tech.

But as soon as anything goes wrong, Witch'll be the first to tell you.

So. The Palladium...

For a start, its very name is grand. As a substance palladium is as precious as gold or platinum. Rare and lustrous and highly valuable. An apt title for a building steeped in glamour. It's no stranger to sparkle.

Even the stage door is glamorous. Huge cast iron gates crowned with the words London Palladium in gold paint and a rather grandiose sloping walkway lead you down to a pair of heavy wooden doors. Their brass handles must have brushed with more celebrity than Parkinson and Letterman put together.

There's something about those vast iron gates that screams importance. We're not tucked away down some rancid back alley, hidden from public view like the hired help. Oh no. At the Palladium we're worn proudly like a badge, paraded like pageant contestants as we walk down the ramp. As I walked towards the entrance on Great Marlborough Street I could hear the cheers of fans from days gone by ringing in my ears. I half expected someone to unroll a red carpet for me as I slipped through the gates.

Sadly no one did. I was brought back to reality with a sharp whiff of bins and the sight of disused paint pots and a forklift truck. There's nothing as humbling as the smell of garbage...

We're doing the Paul O'Grady show tomorrow, at the London Television Studios. I'll let you know how it goes. I'm hoping to bump into Phil and Fearn, but I'll settle for Buster the dog.

Darlings. I must apologize for the distinct lack of anything resembling a blog over the last couple of days. It's been pretty hectic here. We've just moved into the Palladium to tech the show and the first day was pretty full-on. I promise promise promise I'll give you the full update tomorrow, with all the glitter, glam and glitz that this fine theatre deserves.

More Nuns Behaving Badly...

Put a group of actresses in nun costumes, point a camera at them and then simply wait...








Happy Easter from the Little Sisters of Our Mother of Perpetual Faith!

Even witches get sick...

And this particular witch has a lousy, stinking, streaming cold. It's been going around the cast. Better now than on opening night, I guess, but still. I could do without it.

I pitied the girl dancing next to me today in Studio 54, the opening of the show. Think high-energy, body-popping, 70s disco with lots of spins and head rolls and you'll get an idea of how much potential flying snot there could be. I had to sniff hard every time I pirhouetted to avoid such a situation.

We got to the end of the show this afternoon - apart from the finale, which is still being fiddled around with. Alan Menken popped in (I know, chickens - I'm so showbiz) and left just as quickly. We've got a photo shoot tomorrow - no idea what it's for, but I'll let you know as soon as I do. Hope this cold clears up a bit.

Sorry it's a short one, witchlings, but I really rather need my bed tonight. I'll try and get some pics for you of tomorrow. Night night.

An Observation

Sometimes, in the rehearsal room, it can get a little bit...well, a bit dreary. Not that what I'm doing isn't completely, all-consumingly, exciting - or even challenging and involved - it's all of those things. Just occasionally, however, there can be a bit of hanging around. The director or choreographer may get ensconsed in something over the other side of the room - some fiddly piece of traffic, fixing an armline, or maybe even an internal conflict between creative departments.

It can be hard to stay focused fifteen minutes before lunch when you're starving and need the loo. Four o'clock is never a good time, either. If the cast was all pumped up and running scenes and numbers, it would be fine. But a few minutes' hiatus from the main action can be deadly. Even the cleverest of choreographers have fallen prey to the curse of the mid-afternoon lull.

The secret is simple: there's a maximum amount of time a group of performers can be left unattended before they lose interest, and once that point has been passed, there's very little chance of clawing back a return. It doesn't generate productivity.

What it does create, however, is the perfect opportunity for a tired turn to sneak a little sit-down. Of course, it's not without complications. There's an automatic check list to run through in one's head before taking action:

1. How guilty do I feel about not using the time productively? Would a little rest be more beneficial to me than running through that difficult bit of the routine I keep getting wrong?

Invariably rest wins over extra practice. Which brings us to:

2. How long is the choreographer's attention going to stay diverted? Seven minutes? Or a few seconds? Is it worth the bother? There's no point collapsing in a heap only to be called up again immediately.

3. Sussing out the best spot to sit. Usually, the only place is the floor. Occasionally there might be an unused chair onstage, or the edge of a flight case lurking near the sound desk, but these are only worth it if getting to them is inconspicuous. Moving away to find a seat will draw attention and could remind the choreographer to get everyone back to work. No. It needs to be subtle. The best way is to sink slowly to the floor without changing location.

It's amazing how quickly people will follow suit. I tried it today with the express purpose of seeing how long it took the rest of the cast to succumb to the luxury of a few moments' rest - even on a dirty floor.

I counted thirty seconds.

That's not long for the twelve or thirteen people in the rehearsal to be off their feet. (Lipstick says she can beat that with the same amount of people down in twenty-two seconds. We set each other little challenges sometimes.)

It's as predictable as well-placed dominoes, how quickly they all go down. There must be a subconscious comfort in knowing that someone else has already started the mutiny. The knowledge that by adding yourself to the growing number of sitters, you can only increase the safety.

As Lipstick always says,

"When one goes, they all go."

Retail Therapy?

Spoke to Lipstick today. Another friend who has deserted me and is off doing rep somewhere. I'm basically a tour widow at the moment.

She was shopping. It's not a rare occurence for Lipstick to be found scouring the UK's high streets lately. When I call her these days she's never more than an arm's length away from a Topshop clothes rail.

"What are you buying now?" I said, half in admiration, half enviously.

I heard her lipstick-y laugh bubble down the phone line.

"Another pair of jeans. I know! What is wrong with me?" she exclaimed. "I don't even need them."

"Then why are you buying them?" I asked.

The giggle faded to a long silence.

"They'll make me feel better." Her voice sounded subdued.

"Life will be so much cheaper when you're not feeling sad anymore," I said.

Lipstick is a little under the weather at the moment, emotionally speaking. But forget counselling. She's gone down the retail avenue of therapy. It's just a phase, and one that I'm certain she'll grow out of, in time. For now, though, she's destined to wander aimlessly around department stores, seduced by their bright colours and pretty things, helplessly buying into their quick-fix sales pitches. Have me and you'll be happy. Take me home now, hassle-free. Buy me and your life will be just a little bit better.

Now, as you may have guessed, Witch isn't averse to a healthy injection of new glamour from time to time. It's odd, though. I haven't bought anything for about six months and I feel strangely better for it. Considering I used to buy myself something at least every week, that's quite a turnaround.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not boasting about my new-found thriftiness, or showing off about my unshakable grip on the purse strings. It's mainly due to budget reasons. If I could afford to shop, I probably would. But there has been a change, and interestingly it has coincided with a huge change in my life.

I used to shop all the time. I would kid myself that it was just how I was. I just liked to shop, right? What was the problem with that? Nevertheless, I would hide new purchases from friends - guiltily telling myself it was fear of their reproach that was forcing me into hiding. I'm sure partly it was. But I think the greater fear was of being challenged about the reasons behind my spending habits. What was I looking to replace? Was I trying to fill a gap, a void?

It's funny how I don't even want to shop any more. I guess I don't need to. All those beautiful dresses are really just a symbol of how unhappy I was.

Anyway, I'm grateful for them now, because they'll make the Wardrobe Challenge so much easier. Those impulse buys are going to come in handy...

Witch's Wardrobe Challenge

So, armed with the knowledge that the weekend had suddenly and joyously doubled in length and the car was still running, albeit with only half an exhaust pipe, Witch went to see the 'rents yesterday.

Big Witch was there too. Joined us for lunch at a little Italian deli.

"Have you ordered mine yet?" she asked, wrestling with an impossibly large and ridiculously patent Chloe handbag. "Oh, great. No, I'll just have a hot water."
She rummaged around inside the enormous Chloe and produced an unusual-looking teabag.

Big Witch: several years my senior; impossibly trendy; works for a big glossy; likes handbags, smells, books and buying sofas on ebay; keeping them for two weeks before deciding she doesn't like them and selling them on (usually for a profit). Also has witchy hair (a la West End Witch) and is snobbish about tea.

We had a mooch around the shops. I was beginning to tire a little of being dragged around stores where the price tags had to be big enough for four figures. Lately I had begun to tire of the drab old selection in my closet. I felt as if I had nothing to wear but no budget to solve the problem. I voiced this concern to Big Witch and she suggested getting the summer wardrobe out.

"It's not that warm yet," I said.
"No, but you can play around with layering," she replied, fingering a Paul and Joe skirt. "Try it. You've got loads of clothes. And some of them you haven't seen for six months. It'll be like having a new wardrobe."

I thought about what Big Witch had said when I got home. She might just be onto something. I crawled under the bed and pulled out the two big bags of necessaries and fripperies that had lain there hidden for half a year.

She was right. All the summer sillies were there - strappy little pieces of nothing and flimsy bits of chiffon, but there were also a few dresses that were warm enough to wear now with a sweater and the right shoes. What was this? A dear little Forties tea frock I had found a couple of years ago on Brick Lane? Marvellous. And this cute sample from a warehouse somewhere in North London that I had altered to fit? I had forgotten about that, too. Oh, joy!

A little-known fact about West End Witch: I collect dresses. Designer, high street, thrift, home-made - I don't care. I am obsessed with dresses. Fortunately I have so many that when I pulled them out of the bags, it was like having a new wardrobe.

Which got me thinking. We wear 20% of our wardrobe 80% of the time. Kind of shows that there are a lot of sad little numbers sitting at the back of our closets, waiting to be picked. I wondered how long I could go without wearing the same thing twice...

I think I am going to set myself a challenge. I'll have to set some rules and allowances, of course - I'd have to repeat shoes and underwear, and maybe I'd have to exclude rehearsal gear from the equation, but I reckon I could do a fair stretch. In this time of credit crisis, wouldn't it make sense?

Right. I'm going to do it. As soon as I've figured out the finer details of my plan, I'll let you know.

Whoopi Arrives

We tweaked and twiddled, prodded and poked, rehearsed and re-rehearsed act I yesterday morning, in anticipation of our visitor.

Four o'clock arrived. The general buzz became subdued as people quietened down, scared of missing the arrival. The corridors were jammed with loiterers, hoping for an early glimpse. All the entrances were manned. Every time the door opened someone cricked their neck as heads turned sharply to see if it was her.

And then she arrived.

It wasn't the grand entrance we had all hoped for; quite the opposite. All the various Stage Entertainment people came through the doors: producers, assistants, publicity, marketing, TV crews and photographers... But where was Whoopi?

She had ducked behind some pieces of set at the back of the room and emerged from the corner quietly. I wondered if she had hoped to enter unnoticed. No such luck. As soon as her head emerged she was halted in her steps by a loud and sustained applause. She stood there, grinning at us, while people took no pains to hide their cameras, grabbing their photo opportunity.

What was it about her? Was she embarrassed? No... She didn't exactly look uncomfortable; it was something else. I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

Then I realised. It was as if she had been warned how excited we would all be and was dutifully indulging us, but didn't really see what all the fuss was about. It was that simple. She seemed to think it odd, but was unfazed regardless.

After a few minutes, she was ushered to her seat in the front row.

All through the performance, eyes darted to Whoopi. Every gag, every moment, every step, she was watched as she watched. It was like one of those moments when someone tells a joke you already know and you find your enjoyment in watching the other person's reaction. I wonder if she knew how much scrutiny she was under.

When we had finished, she said a few words to us about the piece - how the film was created, who turned down the role before she was offered it (FYI it was Cher and Bette Midler, but not necessarily in that order), how all the nuns were old Broadway dames (Witch loved his one).

It was weird to see her in the flesh. A woman I have looked up to since I was a child; laughed at; adored; idolised, even. And there she was, looking small and strong and not a day older than she did in Sister Act. What an inspiring lady.

I got a few shots, but I thought this one (of Whoopi with Patina Miller, who is very capably filling her shoes for the musical) was really sweet.

An extraordinary afternoon.

Waiting For Whoopi...

We're running act I for Whoopi this afternoon. Our choreographer Anthony Van Laast has been whipping us into shape this morning in his ever-jovial way. The band's in for the first time and the sound girls are working hard to avoid the vocals being drowned by the bass. Patina Miller is hitting new unearthly highs now that she can hear herself properly. The boys look hot. We're all set.

We just need one thing now: the woman herself.

I'll let you know the second she arrives, witchlings. I might even be able to get a sneaky photo up for you by he end of the afternoon.

Watch this space...

Kick Line

Just a quickie for you before I head off to rehearsals....



Nun kick line. Of course, it's funnier if you imagine us all in habits.

Funny Habits

What is it about wearing a habit that makes normal, everyday actions suddenly hilarious? Anything from using a cellphone to eating sandwiches was sending people into fits of laughter on Saturday, as we all donned our wimples for the first time to film what essentially was a "nun pop video".

Hmmn... Less Rock the Casbah and more Rock the Cassock.

I noticed that the general rule seemed to be the more nuns, the funnier. The second a couple of nuns discovered the comedy potential of the habit, it was inevitable that the silly walks and showgirl dancing would kick off (literally), followed by headbanging and air-guitar as the entire group joined in.

Instant comedy. I prescribe it for any struggling stand-ups out there. Get yourself a habit. No, not a coke habit. I mean a full-length, heavy black cloth robe, complete with headdress, white collar and rosary belt. Although you'll have a job finding one. You can't buy a habit, apparently. Nuns make their own as part of their training.

Anyway, it was a lovely day, but more on that tomorrow, chickens - Witch has got to go home and ice the bits that hurt (I've hired the freezer department at Tesco to go sit in for a couple of hours) - but in the meantime, here are a couple of pics for you from Saturday's filming sesh at Hospital...













The first one is "Does this habit bring out the colour of my eyes?" - nun fashion tips. The second photo is less obvious, but there's clearly one nun who doesn't trust the cameramen and is intent on filming the action herself. Check her out in the corner. My personal fave...

Habit Forming

Got fitted for my habit yesterday. I didn't try the wimple thing on, but the dress was enough to bring me out in cold sweats.

I can't believe that women choose to wear these things. I suggested to the costume supervisor that mine could do with a few pearls and a lower neckline, but she wasn't having it.

"The idea of the habit is that it strips you of everything other than your bare self; leaving you free to devote your soul to serving God," she said, clearly amused at my panic.
"I know, but a few sequins wouldn't go amiss," I said. "God wouldn't mind that, would he?"

I cheered up a little when they added the collar. Better light reflection on the jawline. And I've got a rosary belt, so at least I can cinch it in a little bit on the sly.

I didn't realise how vain I was.

An Evening At Angel

We recorded some of Sister Act last night at Angel studios. Whoopi is coming over from the US to do the interview rounds and promo for the show (can't wait for that), and they needed something to use on Wossy and the like.

Angel's beautiful. All wood-panelling and polished floors, and the hugest organ I've ever seen in the corner of the room (pause for laughter). I would have got a picture for you, chickens, but time seems to be money of Ghetti proportions when you're running on the studio clock, and I didn't think Alan Menken would take too kindly to me flashing my iphone around the room when I'm supposed to be belting out top G's.

There was a lively buzz amongst the girls, although no one dared voice it in anything more than a whisper. Not like in rehearsals, where raucous rules supreme. The code of behaviour is different in the studio. Everyone seems to observe an unwritten law of silence - even when the red light's off and silence isn't necessary. There's an air of anticipation. I felt as if I was in some kind of magic library, knowing that something amazing was about to happen but having to contain my excitement (not that that would ever happen - bad analogy, I know).

And what is it about putting cans on my head that automatically turns me into Bono?

It was extraordinary. I started singing with my eyes closed, one hand on the ear with the can on it, earnest expression on my face. When I did eventually look around the studio I could see I was not alone. It took me a while to remember that we were singing Raise Your Voice and not Feed The World.

I tried to forget about Bono (wrong sound) and instead began to channel the likes of Aretha, Donna and Roberta. Ooh...love to love you baby...

It worked. I don't know if I sounded anything like them, but I felt like them. I lived them. When I finally opened my eyes (it seems that sort of behaviour is not strictly limited to Bono), I was almost surprised to find myself in a small studio in Islington and not in a seventies disco joint.

As always, there were a few hiccups - the best being Katie Rowley Jones singing "Ecstasy!" at a really inappropriate moment - but my God, we made some noise in that studio last night. Watch out, West End.

Makeup Break

This amused me today.... Four "nuns", all lined up, re-applying their makeup at lunch, blissfully unaware of how comical they looked. I took advantage of the moment to get a good action shot.


Of course, when they realised I was taking pictures, they all demanded a look. Cries of "Oh, I look disgusting!" and "Can you do another one?" ensued, and I was forced to retake the photo.


Not quite the natural shot I was hoping for...

Just about to get the update on Polly's internet dating adventure...

Online Dating

After a less than exciting day, I decided I needed a break from theatre (difficult in my line of work, I know.) So I went to meet Polly at... the Theatre Royal.

Okay, so it's hardly getting away from theatre, but at least it was a show I wasn't in. There's something quite lovely about being backstage and just knowing that you won't be called down to the stage for anything. At least, I hoped not. Great as my rendition of Food, Glorious Food would be, I might stick out somewhat. To say the least.

Polly and Dolly were apparently too busy even to come down and meet me at the stage door. They had left a note for me summoning me to their dressing room, so I climbed the hundred sterile stairs alone, wondering what could be so good they couldn't tear themselves away from it.

"What's going on?" I asked, pulling off my coat. They were huddled over a laptop in the corner of the room.
"Polly's joining a dating website," said Dolly excitedly, barely looking up.
"Actually, we might need some help," said Polly. "I've done the bit about me. I'm struggling on the section where I have to say what type of man I'm looking for."

"Certainly none of the cockmonkeys you've been after lately," I said, leaning over their shoulders to get a better look. "Pol, if you don't know what type of man you're after, there's not a lot we can do."

"Maybe I should say I want someone with a good sense of humour, honest, kind..."
" - doesn't screw around with nineteen-year-old chorus girls behind your back," added Dolly.

She had a point. It's so incredibly hard to meet anyone in this business. Polly is what you would easily describe as a "catch". Petite, auburn, fun-loving (sounds like I'm writing her dating biog now) - she's hot. And lately, all she seems to be attracting are tech-y sleezeball types with hidden agendas or fucked-up dancer boys with sexuality issues.

In the real world, she wouldn't even give them a second look. But the odds are stacked highly against women in showbiz. If you take all the men involved and divide them up you automatically lose:

About forty percent to homosexuality (that's a rough guess).

Then come the "players" - I'm underestimating, but it must be at least another thirty percent. Don't forget how many gorgeous women there are floating around. You can't blame the poor lads.

Another fifteen percent are insecure, needy, whingey actor-types. No good. Who wants a man who spends longer getting ready than you do?

Of the remaining candidates, ten percent are probably married or have girlfriends.

That leaves five percent. It's not looking good for us, ladies.

Five percent of the men Polly meets are even close to possible dating material. And then, she's actually got to fancy them. The stupid thing is, in the real world, she'd have them falling at her feet. The girl is gorgeous.

It annoys me, actually - that due to massively reduced competition, blokes who wouldn't ordinarily get a look in suddenly consider themselves Adonises. The good ones really are few and far between. It took me long enough to meet the Wanderer, and even then it wasn't free of complications or heartache (long story - another time, chickens).

It surprised me that Polly should want to try internet dating. But when I thought about it, I realised I knew lots of women in showbusiness who lately had done the same thing, and successfully. Working in the theatre is antisocial. Everything happens at the wrong end of the day. By the time we get out for a drink after a show, most people have gone home. We just don't meet anyone.

Polly should be with someone who adores her every move, hangs off her every word, takes tender care of her and makes her laugh. Not someone who doesn't call, leaves her feeling insecure and can't really be bothered. Isn't that what every woman deserves?

If online is the way to find a partner, then I'm all for it.

iphone

Witch had her first fracas with technology today...

To make things easier for online shopping, er... blogging, I decided to invest in an iphone. Apple have got this thing going where they market themselves as user-friendly. Simple. Easy to use. No fuss, no frills.

They're called Apple, for God's sake. What could be simpler, more wholesome than that? Even their playfully lower-case, sans seriff font is designed to draw you in. You trust that they're going to nurture you, simplify everything. In that font there's a promise that Apple will do all the hard stuff for you.

That in mind, I eagerly opened the package, expecting to breeze through the setup, carefree and easy like Sunday morning.

Not so.

There were no instructions, no manual, nothing. I had heard from a friend that itunes had something to do with it, so I dutifully plugged it into the computer and waited for something wonderful to happen.

Nothing did happen, apart from a warning that flashed up - something about the SIM card that I didn't understand. I panicked. What did it all mean? Eventually I managed to ascertain that I needed to insert one, so I undid the sellotape off my old phone (now totally frail and decrepit, as you can imagine), and set about putting it in the new one.

I searched for a gap, a hole, anywhere to put it, but to no avail. After about forty minutes and nearly getting the SIM card stuck in the charging socket, I was beginning to lose hope.

Eventually I found a video of how to do it on youtube. In my defence, the process requires a pin. An actual pin. How was I meant to know that? I felt stupid and cross.

There's something distinctly arrogant about a company that expects you to be a shithot IT consultant before you can even begin use its products.

Another quickie....

For anyone who's ever had a problem with their friends:

http://www.lucydawsonbooks.co.uk/

What My Best Friend Did is Lucy's second book. If her first, His Other Lover is anything to go by, it'll be unputdownable.

Just writing new blog now.... But in the meantime, have a look at this:

http://matthewman.net/

It's a review of the Sister Act press launch, which happened before Witch had even started blogging.

In a mo, chicks.

Well-Heeled?

Witch is thinking about the heels-versus-trainers issue...

Yesterday I decided that I was drab. Devoid of glamour. Vogue-ly destitute. Bad knee or no bad knee, it simply isn't acceptable to rock up to rehearsals in seven-year-old track suit bottoms and a scraggy ponytail. So, I put some heels on. Nothing fancy - a simple gold court shoe. Just enough to give me a 'lift'.

They killed me.

All day spent dancing, running and jumping on a pair of already fragile feet was not conducive to tottering half a mile in five-inch lovelies. The journey home was pinched, to say the least.

I was doing my best not to limp when I saw a woman, a few yards in front of me, heading towards the tube. I had to crane my neck to see her before she vanished into the seething mass of commuters. She was beautifully dressed in what was obviously a very expensive trench coat, beautifully cut and lapping exquisitely around an inky pencil skirt and black lace tights. She looked fabulous.

As always, with matters of fashion, I was intrigued. How had she chosen to set it all off, I wondered. A platform boot? A patent stiletto? Or (my choice) a suede Mary Jane? I ducked around a couple of suits to get a closer look at her feet.

She was wearing trainers.

Not even classy trainers. Proper old, muddied up Reeboks. I felt as if someone had promised me a night at the opera and turned up with tickets for Blackpool Pier. I know she was on her way home, but still? Even a pair of black ballet pumps would just about have done. Anything but grubby old sneakers.

I walked the last hundred yards to the train with my head held high, steeling myself against the pain and fighting the limp with every step.

I might be heading for arthritis, but by Blahnik I will do it in style.

Bar Room Brawl

Witch spent today punching, kicking, slam-dunking, bitch-slapping, hair-pulling, head-locking...

Another day at the office, chickens.

Just kidding. But the gloves were definitely off this afternoon as we tackled the fight scene. I was like a coiled spring in the wings, ready with my bare fist and a cabbage for any sound effects that might be needed. Sadly, I wasn't called upon. Apparently they don't do it like that these days.

It was a lot of fun, but I was glad to get my pearls back on afterwards. All that fighting just isn't ladylike, darlings. And it witched my hair up something chronic.


I managed to sneak a couple of pics for you - Jennie Dale (left) in a headlock, and Claire Greenway (above right), who seems to be under the impression that she's in Karate Kid: The Musical and not Sister Act.

Patina Miller (our Deloris) is singing notes I didn't even know existed. Man, that girl can wail. And Sheila Hancock is like dry ice as the Mother Superior. Brilliant. I was hoping to see her do some Bruce Lee kicks, or at least an upper cut or two. Naturally I was disappointed. Not even a whiff of ninja action. But there's still time. We haven't finished rehearsals yet...

Oh, and seeing the physio again today. But this time I'm ready for her...

Am going to try and get some pictures up of rehearsals. Got some good ones of the fight scene! Nuns in combat...

Laters, chickens. Mwa.

Physios: The Truth

Witch is wondering....

Physiotherapists. I went to see one last night.

I'm amazed they are allowed to do some of the things they do, things that in ordinary life would surely be illegal. What's more, we pay them for it. If I went out on a Friday night, got completely bladdered and caused someone the amount of pain that the physio caused me yesterday, I'd be in trouble with the law.

She's very nice, Briony. Pretty, petite, friendly, unassuming. That type. You'd never know that underneath it all she was an evil sadist.

I was a little apprehensive at first; after all, I've had physio before. I know their game. I was expecting pain.

Even so, she lured me into a false sense of security. All smiles and chat.
"So, are you excited about Sister Act?" she enthused as I was removing my clothes.
"Totally," I said, instantly relaxing. "It's going to be good. Are you coming to see it?"
"Defo," she smiled. "If you'd just like to get up on the bed, onto your side. That's it."
She lay her hands on my knee gently. I winced.
"That's sore there?"
I nodded.
"What about here?"
"That's not so bad."
"Good. I'm just going to loosen it up around here-" she plunged her elbow into my thigh with all the weight of her body.

I let out a noise that was hauntingly inhuman.

"So, you open in May?" she continued, as if she had simply offered me a cup of tea and not nearly just snapped my femur.

It was hairdresser chit-chat - flimsy, superficial, certainly not worthy of the agony I was in. We should have been discussing the plight of the political prisoner, or corporate globalisation. Something with a bit more weight; at any rate, something meatier than my thigh, which was was getting a pounding.

"Uh...I don't know," I faltered, fighting the urge to vomit as she ran the elbow down towards my knee. The pain had made me forget everything I ever knew, incuding my name, address and which production I was in.
"Should be fun," she said sunnily, pummelling my left butt cheek Tyson-style. "It's one of my favourite films. I'm literally there. As soon as you open."
I nade a non-descript "Hmmn-mmn", the pain masquerading as nonchalant agreement.

I think that's what annoys me the most. I pretend I'm alright with the torture, I go along with it all. I make it okay for them to carry on their cruel, sadistic practices.

Actually, the knee's feeling a bit better now....

A Thought

The Wanderer left this morning, back on tour for another week.

It's a pattern I'm used to now - Saturday nights, waiting for him to get back from some far-flung corner of the country; the snatched Sundays, precious and fleeting; the inevitability of Monday mornings when he has to leave again. He only goes for a week at a time, but it's little consolation. It feels as if half my intestines are ripped from my body every time he leaves, plus my heart and one of my lungs. I can't breathe when he's away from me.

I feel a void when he's gone.

Witch has an unexpected afternoon off today. Any ideas, witchlings? What shall I do with this glorious day?

Field Trip

Took matters into my own hands. Couldn't spend any longer whimpering about my knee whilst festering in a tracksuit. It's just not me.

I prepared for my day like Boudica going into battle - except that my warpaint was MAC, my armour Kate Moss for Topshop and my brave tribe of warriors a pack of Aspirin. And with more prescription drugs pulsing around my body than Robert Downey Jnr. gets though in an average week, I bravely stepped off the tube at Southwark.

The drugs did their job and I barely even noticed my knee. Plus we were only singing, so I spent most of the morning sitting down.

Take Me To Heaven is sounding pretty amazing. There's something wonderful, magical... something deliciously wrong about nuns breathily singing oh yeah and Ooh baby, panting like Donna Summer.

We really made some noise in that little room. The trick now will be to maintain it whilst prancing up and down the Palladium stage in front of two thousand people, dressed in full habit...

Having sung all morning, I was quite excited about the dance call at midday. It was probably the Aspirin talking, but the knee was numb and I felt good. I was ready.

I was just pulling my dance gear out of my bag, however, when I heard tell of a trip, an outing. It started off as a whisper, barely audible; mutterings of "cabs waiting outside" and "set builders' yard" in hushed tones. Could it be true? Were we being allowed out? A sniff of freedom? The rumour grew louder, stronger.

Suddenly the muted rumbling turned to a blasting roar, like an approaching train at full speed. Quiet conversation turned to excitable chatter, bags were slung on shoulders and people headed gleefully for the exit. I followed, not really knowing where or why, but confident in their excitement.

We were being taken to see the set.

What is it about a little field trip that's so exciting? Is it the call of the wild, the chance to throw off the harness and abandon the pack? Or is it the idea of getting out of the classroom, buying a bit more free time? Ever since infant school I can remember the feeling of knowing an excursion was coming. The anticipation of being lined up in pairs, waiting to march down the playground and out of the school gates... Whether it was carol service, harvest festival or surveying shoppers in the street, it all spelled one thing: change.

A backstreet in Bermondsey was perhaps not the change I had hoped for; nevertheless it was change. We piled out of the cars animatedly, eager to see what would be our new surroundings for the coming year. Carpenters scurried around (not Karen and Richard - I mean actual carpenters) with various bits of wood and unidentifiable pieces of set. In the centre of the room a giant floor was being built, an intricate pattern of tracks and trap doors and revolves. I felt as if I was in the nerve centre of Willy Wonka's factory. Aside from the fact that there were no Oompa Loompas and the smell was less chocolate and more spray paint, it could have been there.

We got to stand on our new pews. There were three in total, each one a step higher than the one on front. There's something mysteriously fun about standing on a ledge, even if it is only a couple of feet high. We were shuffled around for a few minutes while the creatives decided if they were happy with the size, before being herded back into the cars and whisked back to work.

A brief trip, but worth every second.

Getting There...

Marginally better today. I've managed to wriggle into a frock, at least. Only working half a day. Knee still bad. May buy a bun to cheer myself up.

Fashion Disaster

Witch is so tired she can barely blog, so just a quickie...

This morning I went to work looking like something even the cat wouldn't want to drag in. My outfit was less Oscar de la Renta and more Rent-a-Chav. Let me conjure the image for you:

Five-year old white sneakers that haven't been white for three of those years, black socks, three-quarter length grey tracksuit bottoms (neither baggy nor cool enough to be in the running for Harem pants), a white T-shirt that accidentally got coated with black angora in the wash, the angora culprit itself in the form of a shrunken cardi and a disgusting brown leather jacket.

The strain of rehearsals has taken its toll and I have lost all ability to dress myself.

It's not like me.

I need to get it together. The director must be wondering what happened to the stylish, graceful girl he cast and why a tramp keeps turning up to rehearsals.

West End Winch

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God. Witch can barely walk.

There's a saying that I've always hated. A stupidly obvious statement. A pointless exercise in speech. It's so ridiculously inane that it renders itself completely redundant by the time it's been said. In fact, silence would be more enlightening. It goes something like this:

"I'm not as young as I used to be."

I am really feeling that phrase tonight.

After an entire day of high kicks, backbends and drag runs (yes, you heard me right - I think drag runs are making a comeback), I am so stiff that normal procedures such as negotiating stairs and getting up out of a chair have become highly complicated, advanced tasks. I'm going to need a winch to get myself into bed tonight.

It seems that these days, I can even injure myself without moving. For example:

Today at work we had just been taught a fairly difficult dance sequence. The young people didn't flinch at it, but I noticed I wasn't the only one grimacing every time we had to do that last knee-slide. Still, I got through it without much ado. Ten minutes later I was standing at the side, minding my own business, when something in my left knee went Bang! and I felt a sharp pain shoot up through my leg, as if someone was stabbing me from the inside. A few people heard the bang and asked if I was alright. Embarrassedly, albeit through watery eyes, I laughed it off. I felt silly. Who hurts themselves just by standing still?

I'd done all the hard stuff. There's not much hope for me if standing is going to start causing me injuries.

By the end of the day I was a wreck. I felt grubby, too. You know the pattern: makeup, sweat, dirt, sweat, more makeup to cover the sweat... Unfortunately the makeup mixed with the thin film of grime that my face had acquired after a day in the studio and I looked as if I was wearing a foundation that was one shade too dark for me. My hair was extra witchy today as well, which didn't help. Frizzy, dirty and a little bit limp-y. Not a good combo.

The show's looking fantastic. I wish I did.

I'm going to have to pace myself. At this rate I won't last a week, let alone a year.