Monday 30 March 2009

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...

Saturday 28 March 2009

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.

Friday 27 March 2009

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.

Wednesday 25 March 2009

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...

Tuesday 24 March 2009

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.

Monday 23 March 2009

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.

Friday 20 March 2009

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.

Wednesday 18 March 2009

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.

Tuesday 17 March 2009

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.

Monday 16 March 2009

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

Sunday 15 March 2009

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.

Saturday 14 March 2009

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.

Friday 13 March 2009

Fashion Disaster

Oscar De La Renta - Runway - Fall 09 MBFW
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.

Little Britain - Charity Gala Performance

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.

Thursday 12 March 2009

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.

Tuesday 10 March 2009

Yo-Yo Diet?

I feel like Yo-Yo Ma's cello. Plucked and prodded and bruised all over, with a left quad tighter than the A string and a hollow feeling inside.

And we've only been dancing one day.....

I've got to get over this. Isn't it what they call "good" pain, the hurt that comes from exercise? I should embrace it. With all the workouts I'm getting, I'm going to be one fit witch by opening night. Firmer than Madonna's inner thigh.

The powers that be have reiterated the "No weight loss" order, sparking numerous sightings of nuns happily tucking into bacon sandwiches and the like. The canteen has lost its air of deprivation and the mood at lunchtime is jubiant; ecstatic, even.

I'm always on some sort of diet, and as I guess the "no weight loss" thing probably extends to "no weight gain" either, I'm going to have to remain on one. I watched miserably this morning as two of my collegues cheerfully munched their way through a breakfast baguette, all sausage and egg and gloriously oozing butter. I think I may have stared too long. I'm now a little worried that I may have absorbed some of the fat through osmosis. I'm sure it's possible. In fact, my skirt feels a little tight now.....

Monday 9 March 2009

Have We Met?

Witch arrived at Jerwood Space this morning to discover a cornucopia of coffee, cake and small talk. Ah, the "Meet-and-Greet"...

Well, they call it a "Meet-and-Greet", but everyone invariably sticks with the people they already know, so consequently neither meet nor greet happens. It's usually a seething mass of small, twitchy clusters; everyone seemingly happy to be there, but equally jittery. Eyes dart to more interesting groups on the other side of the room. Smiles are strained, laughs are louder, conversation is a little forced. The laws of politeness apply.

Today there was none of that. Many of us knew one another from the workshop in January, and the new people had been in the week before to get up to speed. I don't know if being plied with cake had anything to do with it, but the atmosphere was unusually relaxed.

I was slightly alarmed when I reached the studio upstairs to find about a hundred chairs laid out in an enormous circle. What were they planning? A mass séance? Or maybe a giant prayer meeting? Should I expect to find myself kneeling on the floor, eyes rolling to the heavens and manically shouting Hallelujah? I know I'm playing a nun, but that surely would be method acting in the extreme...

Happily it was neither. Just a plain old Stand-Up-And-Introduce-Yourself affair. In fact, we were asked to say our name, role and state our favourite film. As it came around to me, I kept trying to think of some amazing movie that would set me out from the crowd, some highbrow-yet-edgy piece of arthouse, something like Withnail and I or Apocolypse Now - a film with instant kudos that would let everyone know how educated and cool I was.

Unfortunately, when it got to my turn, the first thing that came into my head was Dirty Dancing.

Unlucky.

Curiously, the studio floor was raised a couple of feet. I was trying to work out exactly why, when the director enlightened us that a revolve had been inserted into the floor. A revolve. Wow. I knew this show was going to be big, but a revolve in the rehearsal space? Now, that's posh.

Haven't had a go on it yet. Apparently it makes you seasick. Oddly, I can't wait.

We got straight into a vocal call, starting with the end of act one, Take Me To Heaven. Man, this song is genius. Alan Menken has expertly woven classic seventies disco themes together, with obvious references to acts like Donna Summer and Chic. Equally brilliant are Glenn Slater's lyrics. The song is used twice in the show: once in Deloris' seedy nightclub and again for the nuns' launch as a choir under her direction. The words remain the same, but sit comfortably in two different contexts.

It was a good day, all in all. It's going to be an exciting few months. Whoopi's coming over at some point as well. I don't know when, but I literally can't wait. I'll be looking out for her every day...

Other highlights were seeing Rosamund Pike in the ladies' sorting out her contact lenses, dressed in jeans and a massive crinoline, and Dame Judy in the canteen. Now, that's showbiz.

Tomorrow we start dancing. Look out, knees.

Sunday 8 March 2009

Witch has woken up just on the wrong side of hungover this morning. Just reaching for the paracetamol and then you'll have my full attention.....

Ah. That's better. I took them with scorching hot coffee in the hope that they'll dissolve more quickly. Unfortunately now I have a massive blister on the roof of my mouth. Oh dear.

And what's going on with my feet? Man, they're twice the size they were yesterday. I've always had problems with bunions, but today my big toe joints look as if someone has stitched golf balls into them.

Last night was a success; the outfit went down very well and I managed to stay in the shoes all night - a first for the six-inch lovelies. The last time I wore them was a disaster. In my defence, I forgot that Newcastle was cobbled and there was nowhere to sit in Perdu (it's all weird bed-type furniture), but needless to say I didn't last long before the Wanderer had to carry me home.

Last night, however, I stood all evening; hence probably why the bunions are bad this morning, but I didn't want to ruin the effect of my dress by scrunching it up in a dark corner. I contrived to meet the Wanderer beforehand, so at least I had a strong arm to steady me on the stairs.

The Oliver! lot were there, quite a few had zipped over from Wicked and there were even a few members of the Joseph cast knocking about. All in all, quite a bizzy old affair.

Showbiz showbiz... Anyway. Witch had better go, darlings. I've got to prepare for my first day on Sister Act. Should be fun!

Will let you know how it goes, chickens...
It seems Whoopi is going to be a busy lady.....

17th Annual Elton John AIDS Foundation Academy Award Viewing Party - Arrivals

http://tinyurl.com/cagn6v

Saturday 7 March 2009

Wardrobe Crisis Solved!

Went for a charming little dress from Betsey Johnson in the end, a cute little red number with black dots; quirky but elegant. Dressed it down with black opaques and black chunky court shoes. All set off with a simple Ruby Woo lip....

West End Witch: Never Knowingly Underdressed.

Wardrobe Dilemma

Just a quickie. Witch has an engagement tonight and nothing to wear. Nothing.

There is now nothing in my wardrobe. Every last garment has been tried on, discarded and then thrown stroppily on the bed.

It's a fairly posh do - members' bar, quite smart, teeming with creative types and media magnates. Oh, and not forgetting all the Wendies. The place'll be crawling with them.

Should I go all-out glamour, or quirky cool? It's very easy to get it wrong in these situations. I don't want to turn up looking like Dita Von Teese if everyone else is in Sienna-style skinnies and Boho belts. Equally, I don't want to blend into the background. Gaaah!
17th Annual Elton John AIDS Foundation Academy Award Viewing Party - Arrivals

Friday 6 March 2009

A Question of Faith...

Right. This is a tough one. Witch has been asked, as part of her Sister Act homework, to formulate a couple of questions to be forwarded to real life nuns. Hmmn.....

Thanks, by the way, for all your lovely Tweety suggestions - notably from Claire, who suggested asking if there's such a thing as standard issue nun underwear. Silly, maybe, but no less valid. Got me thinking. Where do nuns buy their knickers from? I can't quite picture Sister Mary-So-and-So cruising down the aisles of Marks and Spencer, or furtively fingering frillies at the back of La Senza.

Maybe there's a nun catalogue. Habits Direct, or similar. Although I can't imagine there would be much choice.  Available from sizes 6-20 in all shades of black.

Anyway, spurred on by bra-and-panty curiosity (every hue and shade of wrong, I agree), I began to think of questions I would like to ask a nun. It got off to a feeble start. After ten minutes, I had a paltry list of gimcrack ideas, all show and little substance. It was as if I was trying to ingratiate myself with or somehow impress these women; women I had never met, had nothing in common with and would almost certainly never identify with.

And then it struck me. Clean and quick, like the thunderbolt to the sinner. Hence my first question:

Why?

What makes someone become a nun?

It all just seems a bit, well... a bit silly, really. Why the hell (pardon the pun) would you give up your home, family, worldly possessions et al - to go and live a life of seclusion with a bunch of people you had never met? It's an issue of faith, sure, but is it really that helpful? I'd genuinely be interested to know.

I know they call it "the calling", but it would have to be a call louder than Streisand through a megaphone to get me anywhere near a convent. The idea seems utterly alien to me. I'd be pushed to get by without even my GHDs, let alone all my back catalogue of beauty products... Dr. Haushka... Clinique... Immac...

Speaking of Immac, I wonder what the church's official stance is on nun hair removal? Hang on, I think I've got my next question.

Wednesday 4 March 2009

Hello, witchlings. Having spent a wonderful weekend with the Wanderer, reality hit me on the back this morning with more force than André Previn's left hand as I remembered that I have less than a week to go before I start.

Hence a two-mile run (admittedly, with stops) and a considerable amount of stretching and straining. Something has happened to my flexibility. I used to be able to drop into the splits without batting an eyelid. Now I can't touch my toes without wincing. In fact, these days I seem to have more aches and pains than the entire cast of Cats put together.

I'm not kidding myself. I know it's age. And it bothers me.

It's not so much the actual ageing that upsets me, or even the effect it has aesthetically. Ten years later I'm far happier with my body than I ever was at twenty. No, it's the fact that everything's just that little bit harder these days. 

Maybe ten years of showbiz have accelerated the process. High kicks and backbends can't have helped. I'm hoping that choreographically Sister Act is going to be less step kick and more step dig. I've got a horrible suspicion it's going to hurt though, a prickly feeling that starts in my back and runs down my left leg... Oh no, wait. I think that's sciatica.

Sunday 1 March 2009

After a charming lunch with Antoine, I trot over to the Theatre Royal for a spot of tea. I'm so enjoying this exquisite last week of freedom.  If only life was a constant rotation of tea, cake and champagne...

I feel a little sorry for the crowds of autograph-hunters as I glide past them, tucked safely behind the barrier. I hear the phwit phwit of pages being frantically turned, programmes being scanned for a picture that looks like me. I smile apologetically, trying to convey an air of sorry folks - just visiting! I fail, naturally. They mistake it for smugness. I instantly suppress the smile and assume what I hope is a neutral expression, but I fear it resembles a sneer. I hear few people make tsk! noises. Now I know how Bernadette Peters' dresser feels. Constantly disappointing.

The lady on stage door buzzes me in and a second later I slam it shut on the menacing crowd that is now peering over my shoulder for a glimpse of Rowan. I sit down quietly and wait for Polly politely. A few muso types go out, probably to the pub.

I'm just beginning to feel uncomfortable when the door bursts open and out pops Polly, tiny as ever, dressed in nothing but a towel, some Ugg boot-type slippers and a shower cap.
"Hi, love!" she beams, almost dropping her towel as she extends her arms to me.
"Hello! How was the matinee?"
"Oh, okay. We were a couple of kids down, but as there are over a hundred of them, I don't think anyone noticed."
"Interesting look," I say, indicating her towel.
"What, this? Yes, it's lovely isn't it. How glamorous," she says, leading me through to the backstage corridor.

Now, if front of house at Drury Lane resembles Napoleon's apartments at the Louvre, then backstage is more like a mental institute from the Fifties. It's grim. Peeling paint, filthy floors and a sterile chill of echoey concreteness. I can even hear the cracked-up wailing of the inmates. No... wait. I think it's just the sound of luvvies doing their vocal exercises.

I follow Polly up the stairs, conscious of her lack of footsteps, trying to mute my own. We pass several floors, up and up until I feel the air thin.

"Here we are," says P, grabbing a key off a ledge and taking it to a nearby door. I hold my breath in anticipation of a prison cell, but what I am greeted with is a Chintzy little affair, a cosy assortment of florals and pastels. There's even a bed, which P has cleverly disguised as a sofa with a few strategically placed cushions.

I look around. It's definitely had the P treatment. She's brought in an abundance of home comforts; toaster, kettle, microwave, cups, plates, cutlery.
"You've lucked out here," I say, picking up a spoon with a serrated edge. "What the hell is this?"
"It's a fruit spoon," replies P. Figures. Polly's the only person I know who would even possess such an object, let alone bring it into work.
"Yes, we definitely lucked out, me and Doll," she says.

The comedy potential of Polly sharing a room with Dolly has not been lost on me.

"The rest of the female ensemble are all shoved in together over the other side of the building,"she continues. "It's like an episode of Bad Girls."
I imagine hair-pulling and eye-scratching, but I think she means the room, not its inhabitants.
"Can't they refurb it?" I say. "It's about time, surely."
"Company manager loves it," she says. "He says it's a proper theatre. Says they don't make them like this any more."

There's a reason for that.

We have a lovely couple of hours, the two of us. Rose-flavoured cupcakes, gossip, a bit of American Idol. It's a shame P has got another show to do. Saturday night telly was looking quite good.

As I walk down the stairs I can't help feeling disappointed that I haven't seen Rowan Atkinson.

And then it happens. We turn a corner and there he is, deep in conversation at the end of the corridor with the company manager. He looks troubled, deep lines running across his brow and dark circles under his eyes. He sees us and smiles briefly, but oddly, the frown survives. I look more closely and realize it's makeup. I try to return the smile, but get consumed by a sudden attack of shyness and trip over Polly's left slipper in my haste to scuttle away.
"You alright?" says P as I fall through the doorway to the exit.
"What? Oh, yes. Just got my heel stuck," I babble.
"Right," she says, disbelievingly.

I say goodbye to P and leave the stage door. The poor sods are still outside. God knows what they're waiting for. They'll have a long wait. The evening performance is about to start.

I make my way home to wait for the Wanderer. I feel tired. I hope I stay awake long enough to see him. It's been a long day, especially in six-inch heels.