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.