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...
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