The Rituals of Opening Night

This is a guest blog by daughter number 1, Genevieve, who is currently on tour with the Brian Friel play, Translations. She wrote this blog just before her opening night in Derry. The play is touring in Ireland, Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales and is her first stage play, having appeared in a number of television dramas, comedies and short films. 

Tonight is opening night for Brian Friel's Translations directed by Adrian Dunbar at the Millennium Forum, Derry. Playing the part of Sarah, this is the first time I have stepped on stage in front of a live audience in ten years.

Building nerves contained only by a combination of caffeine, Pink Floyd and hiding myself away in the dressing room. A renewed focus on that book I was meant to finish a year ago.

A rather bespectacled, spotty teenager at the time, school plays were all about popularity, glamour and whose embarrassing parents were going to be sitting in the front row. The vociferous grandma with the noisy hearing aid, the young mother with the bawling baby who whispers apologies but still doesn't leave the hall, those annoying prepubescent girls from Year 9, the bright lights, the huddle in the common room/dressing room teamed with a high five, the shushed giggles, the ridiculous amounts of make up - a teenager's makeup AND with the dramatic pat of stage makeup and you can just begin to imagine the carnage. You know, as well as I do, that the small, awkward stage at the local secondary school is as big and overwhelming to a small pupil as the auditorium I am stepping out onto tonight. No matter how big or small, old or young, amateur or professional, it feels like the real thing.

Some of you will remember me talking about my love for acting in the blog I wrote for the BBC back in 2010. That hasn't changed - the standing in front of a camera, gripped by a sense of character and lifted by this transformation of the script into a real life entity - what a privilege to be alive and here in this moment! But somehow launching my theatre career after all this time has created a stumbling block for me. I am crippled once more with the fright and insecurity that I encountered ten years ago.

Deafness and an aspiring actress doth not make a happy conjugation. It was my drama teacher encouraging me to audition for those lead roles every year in the school play. Every year I took that leap of faith that yes, I was a good actress, I understood the part, I learnt the lines, I practiced my diction with my speech therapist, with my mother, in front of the mirror. And yet, time and time again, I was clapping with joy in school assembly for my best friends who got those parts - happy for them but yet crippled with insecurity and dejection that it never came right for me. Not really understanding why. And there was only ever one reason that came to the fore, in harsh words echoed by my drama teacher (why so late?) - my deafness. I can't speak clearly enough for the audience to hear me. After all, who wants to hear a blocked, clanging nasal voice painfully reciting lines across the stage? I can understand that.

And there was the solution - go to university, get a degree, aspire for a good job and build up the pennies. Pay off my student debts, find a lovely boyfriend, move into a house, get married, have children and live a happy, happy life. Nothing wrong with that.

Recently I've been thinking about fate. And whether fate turns a hand when you are unsure of the way. If that's the case, then the opportunity that came to be when I was plucked out of obscurity, sitting in a classroom in Bermondsey to the lead role of Amelia in 'The Silence' - that's a big tell. And lately, when I've been doubting whether this was the still right thing to do, with roles far and few, this part seemed to land on my doorstop. And that only brings me to the conclusion that I was meant to be an actress, to keep working viciously at tuning and retuning my voice for the past three years so that when I step on stage tonight - it's finally right, and I'm right there with it.

So...deep breath - it's time to go on. And when the lights in the auditorium fade out, it won't be in the school hall, camped out in my rabbit outfit waiting for the cue to scamper on and scamper off with a whisker here and there (yes I was 17 years old). It will be my time to stand up straight with my head held up high and march onto that stage into the space where I was born to be. 

Running with Alan

I wrote this in 2009. This was one of the most moving experiences I have had since I became involved in raising funds for people with dementia and their carers. I have been thinking about this special day and I know that Alan is no longer with us but on that day, this man whose condition had robbed him of his ability to communicate through speech, was absolutely brilliant. He challenged all my perceptions about people with dementia and, if you read this, I hope it will challenge yours too.

It was a lovely summer’s day – light breeze, warm sun, just a few pale clouds scudding across the blue – a perfect day for running the Seven Bridges from Studley Roger and through the Deer Park at Fountains Abbey near Ripon. On a normal day, I would run alone with my i-pod playing, trying to maintain a steady pace and waiting for the reward of the endorphins kicking in at the end. But this was not a normal day. This afternoon I was meeting John who works for the local Alzheimer’s Society, and Alan, who has run marathons in New York and London as well as a host of other races at a seriously competitive level but who now in his mid-sixties has Alzheimer’s.  

John greeted me warmly. I had met John before – he is one of a rare breed that makes caring for others and giving up his time seem like the best job in the world. John had told me some time ago that he ran regularly with Alan and that single thought challenged so many preconceived ideas about dementia that I pleaded to be allowed to join them on one of their regular runs.

Alan was obviously wary of this intrusion into his established routine with John. It would not be safe for Alan to run without John by his side and he genuinely relishes this opportunity to put on his running vest and shoes and recapture the buzz of running. If you are not a runner, this may sound an unlikely concept but, trust me, running is addictive.

Introductions were made and we set off up the track, walking briskly to warm up muscles. Then John remembered that he had wanted to capture our run on film and shot back to the car to get his camera. Instantly, Alan suggested sprinting ahead to give John a chase to catch us. His wicked sense of humour was infectious and though I could not easily understand every word, his plan was brilliant and we set off at a brisk pace.  Of course, we let John catch us, but by then we were laughing together and a connection had been made. We trusted each other and were friends.

Across the fields and through the woods and Deer Park, sometimes walking but mostly running with occasional pauses to admire the remarkably large trout in the stream or the dappled woodland, we chatted – all three of us – about the scenery and the run and just about the joy of being out on such a perfect day. Alan had such a twinkle in his eye and sometimes he and I ran ahead, hand in hand laughing while John took less than flattering photographs from behind.

The last part of the run is down the straight road from St Mary’s Church to the park gates. The road runs gently down hill in an absolutely straight line – it begs you to race it. We started slowly, then Alan kicked off. He changed gear from a steady jog to a sprint with John keeping up easily and me – well, hopelessly outpaced. Alan’s confidence and sense of belonging as a runner were palpable – he was, as sports commentators sometimes say, ‘in the zone’. 

At the gates, we had to slow down to cross the cattle grids. Alan strode across and John remarked to me how fantastic it was that he was still able to do that so easily. We ran the last few yards to the car and our run was over. 

John told me that the drugs Alan takes affect his ability to run and his condition has changed his life in so many ways but his joy in being able to run and his love of the outdoors remains undimmed. Someone who had lost a loved one to Alzheimer’s told me once that even to the end, the essence of the man always remains. That afternoon, I was able to glimpse the Alan that had run marathons, laughed and joked with friends and had a wicked sense of humour. All of that is still there and I am very much a fan.

Postscript: I have asked to run again with John and Alan. It was such a special afternoon and one which touched my heart. I could never have kept up with the Alan of old, but running through the Deer Park hand in hand with this extraordinary man – that was a treat.

Stretching the Umbilical Cord

I am spreading myself rather thinly at the moment - or, at least, that is how it feels. I am not ever in favour of turning blogs into an excuse for either a moan or a rant (though I may have slipped into either genre at one or two points over the last few years) but there is a lot of stuff going on, most of which I have no control over, but in which my presence is somehow required. Much of it is child-related and this has to take precedence over all the other stuff which is, as they say, easier said than done.

About eighteen months ago I organised with my friend Louise (the pioneering, fundraising, torch-bearing, utterly brilliant inspiration behind the Acorn Charity) to take our mothers to the Lake District to stay with Basil and Sybil at Low Graythwaite Hall, the fabulous and fantastic B&B run by our chums. We had a great time and the two grannies absolutely loved it. So we agreed to repeat the venture and booked to go away this week immediately after Mothering Sunday when the intrepid granny would be in residence in any case at the little house on the prairie. Actually, the brief was to see 'a host of golden daffodils' as per William Wordsworth's poem but the English weather being what it is, booking for daffodil-viewing could be any time between the middle of February in a good year to sometime nearer June!

Anyway we set off on Monday, having grannied all day Sunday with mothers from both sides here for a big feed cooked by my beloved with modest assistance from 3 and 4. And it was wonderful to be back up in the beautiful Lake District with the snow-capped mountains in the distance and, obviously, scarcely a daffodil on view. However, when I had booked the trip, I had not factored in the activities of the offspring who are:

In a play in Ireland which has now successfully opened but last weekend was a source of tremendous nerves and panic, and dare I say it, a little homesickness.

Making major career changes and needing support. She does not need our opinions but just needs to talk about the pros and cons - a lot.

And two who got the results for their first round of AS modules last week and, as with GCSEs, attempted to use every letter in the alphabet for their grades.

I am also working rather hard at the moment which is a good thing from a financial point of view but not necessarily so from a laundry/domestic viewpoint. So skipping off amongst the only-just-in-bud daffodils wasn't entirely convenient but the grannies enjoyed it again and we Beatrix-Pottered for a whole day on Tuesday and what I don't know about Peter Rabbit and his pals is simply not worth knowing. And I am back now and attempting to deal with work (backing up), laundry (beyond the backing up stage and now turning into mountains of clean but un-ironed garments in nearly every room downstairs) and finding all the things children 3 and 4 lost or left somewhere in the three days I was away.

I have a number of friends whose children have disappeared off to far-flung corners of the Empire and I consider myself fortunate that three quarters of my brood are comparatively nearby. I am sure these friends too feel the stretching of the umbilical cord but I suspect, like me, they would like to introduce some sort of turns system whereby the children do not all require assistance at once. But all my offspring sent me wonderful Mothering Sunday cards (including the Barnsley lodger) so I will continue to be absolutely there for them whenever, wherever and whatever and I think they know that.

Postscript: In case you wondered, I got my first rejection letter for TFN or The Rule of Three as it is properly known. It was, in fact, very helpful and detailed and has not burst my bubble so we will be pressing on when all of the stuff mentioned above has calmed down a bit. JKR got 46 rejections before someone saw the light about Harry Potter so I remain undaunted!

Mrs Tiggy Winkle doing the laundry - an ever-present theme in my life!

Village Life and Jelly

This week is half term and so all the usual attempts at routine and structure have somewhat gone out of the window. I am trying to work, do some exercise and keep on top of the mess at the little house on the prairie. However, keeping pace with the stuff going on my kitchen is proving a challenge.

It is a source of pride that all my children can cook and the younger two who are still resident cook for pleasure. Actually number 3 cooks lots of additional meals for himself because he is always hungry and frequently claims that we are starving him to death. Anyway, this week, amongst other things, number 4 has made a very beautiful and delicious red velvet cake and a rather less successful raspberry jelly. Why was the jelly unsuccessful? Because too much stuff was added to the dissolved jelly cubes. Consequently there is some raspberry jelly/sludgy drink in my fridge with no hope of setting.

This thing about adding too much stuff to something is a subject I've been thinking about for the last couple of weeks since I heard the news that our village has been earmarked for a development of 40 houses.

If you come across my blog often, you will know that I love where I live. I love the open fields around my house and the woods beyond and the way that they reflect the changing seasons and I absolutely love the friendly, all-embracing village that is just a mile away.

Our village is one of those that makes every estate agent's lips smack. It has, in no particular order: one village shop, one primary school, two pubs, two churches, a village green, a sports field, two village halls and a bus service. All marvellous and very much appreciated by the locals who genuinely operate on a use-it-or-lose-it basis. All of the above, of course, also make it prime target material for the local authority to site new houses. My question is how many new houses in a village of currently about 200 houses (my guess...) will change the chemistry of the village and ultimately stop it from gelling?

I can see why the local authority would want to build here but the size of the single development is a major concern. Perhaps, for example, the judicious use of various smaller areas within the village envelope where, say, anything up to a dozen houses can be built in two or three places would enable the village to absorb more readily the new influx of residents over a period of time. And I can also see that any development is good news for the shop and pubs and will hopefully maintain the bus service, not to mention the local clergy who have probably done a dignified celebratory jig in their cassocks. But 40 houses in one site, perhaps 120 new residents, is a big dollop of something that will inevitably change the nature of the village, perhaps rendering those things which make it such a great place to live not so great in the future.

I know, you're probably thinking that I won't be able to see the new houses from where I live but I do think that this size of development will change things for everyone and once the houses are there, there can be no backward step. I just think there must be a better way to do it. Or our village may end up like the jelly in my fridge.

Number 4's fabulous cake - I fear I am responsible for the large hole in its side. Delicious!

There's no place like home

I have been painting one of the bedrooms this week and as I slapped yet another coat of emulsion on the walls, it occurred to me that we will have been living in this house for twenty five years this April. That's a lot of coats of emulsion, let me tell you! It also crossed my mind that I had never written about how we came to live here.

I know I refer to it as the little house on the prairie but actually it's a little house down a long track standing in the middle of green fields and sandwiched between two woods. Before we lived here, we lived in a village the other side of the A1 or The Great Divide as we saw it. We lived in a lovely little house in the middle of the village but with one baby and plans for more, we needed to move so we decided to put our house on the market and see what happened.

What happened was that we got a buyer - two, in fact - and we finished up being offered a very good price. And we found my dream house. All brilliant. Then things started to go very wrong...

The first thing - and by a country mile, the worst thing - was that my beautiful baby was deaf. We didn't know, we had no inkling; she was just like every other baby but better, because she was ours. I'm not a fainter but when the consultant said that she was severely deaf, would never go to a mainstream school, would never speak - that was the worst moment of my life, the worst day of my life and I did faint. I didn't deal with it very well - total denial kicked in so we decided to move house anyway. Not very sensible, I know, but at the time being sensible wasn't in my spectrum.

The dream house wasn't going to be available until about a month after our purchasers wanted to move into ours so we decided to move into a rented cottage on a chicken farm. And I am now pregnant. And then our surveyor gave my dream house the worst survey ever. I think the words he used included: "It's on the move" ie its total lack of proper foundations would make it a potential nightmare for us and probably make it impossible to sell in the future. I'd like to point out that it's still standing and I drive past it often.

So we are on the chicken farm in the pokiest cottage ever with the toddler who doesn't want things stuck in her ears because it makes a noise in her head that she doesn't understand, another baby on the way (who I prayed every night wouldn't be deaf like her sister) and nowhere to buy.

So off we go on the house-hunt again and we find, eventually, a house in not really the ideal location but very nice nonetheless and as Kirsty Allsop would say now, compromises had to be made. We are on with the legal stuff and there seems to be some sort of light at the end of the tunnel - housewise anyway.

One evening in the pokey cottage on the chicken farm, with one baby finally asleep and feeling tired in a way that only pregnant women really know about, my beloved is late home - again. So I ring him on his mobile (at that time, mobiles or 'car phones' as they were then known were the size of house bricks) and he answers that he is being loaded on a stretcher into an ambulance having been in a head-on collision on the way home from work. I think my enquiry as to his lateness included several expletives which he has joyfully reminded me of over the years. The result of all this was that he had a broken leg on one side and a broken ankle on the other so here I am in the pokey cottage on the chicken farm with one baby who can't hear and another on the way and a husband on crutches. This is not good.

But at least we will soon be moving into our new home before the arrival of number 2 child. Eventually, plasters off, crutches gone, my beloved is back on the road and things are going in the right direction. One day, he comes home so excited. "I've bought a house!" Brilliant - except that we are already buying a house and this is not the same house and I haven't seen it. So off we go, down a long track, in the middle of green fields and sandwiched between two woods. Yes, he shook hands on the deal before I actually saw it but he was right. It's perfect - scruffy (still is!), chaotic but the perfect home for us.

Nothing in my life since then has ever been as bad as that winter, but one thing I know - there's no place like home.

Fourteen go mad in Edinburgh

Any birthday with a nought at the end deserves a really proper celebration so when our cricket first team skipper finally reached the same decade as me (at last!) and suggested that a team of fourteen head north to Edinburgh to mark the event, we needed no second asking.

So early Saturday morning, leaving children 3 and 4 home alone for the first time with child 2 in a remote (ie not actually on the premises but near enough to deal with fire, famine, bubonic plague etc) supervisory role, we drove to Darlington station to set off to the Scottish capital. The skipper and his wife, Mrs Broccoli have a lifetime's experience in the leisure industry so the organisation was seamless throughout. We were one of two parties in the first class carriage on the East Coast Mainline, the other being a hen party. They had a large stash of fizz, vodka and cupcakes and we had a similar stash of fizz and some sort of ginger liqueur but a distinct lack of cupcakes which they unsportingly refused to share. I had vowed not to drink in January in England so obviously I had to wait till north of the border but that didn't stop me singing the song about not flushing in the station when required. Actually I've just searched it on the internet and it has lots of surprising verses I never knew about! Hmm...

We arrived in Edinburgh in jolly mood and walked up a million steps to the Royal Mile and the Missoni Hotel - very swanky! Missoni goes in for a lot of primary colour stripes and the rooms were no exception. In fact, wearing the Missoni dressing gown, my beloved looked like a giant bar code. I was briefly worried about what the stripes might do to my vision when I had had a few glasses of red but as it turned out, things were no more blurry and confused than usual.

No time for lounging around, we were straight off in taxis on our mystery tour. All Skip and Mrs Broccoli had told us was that it was not sport - and probably for my benefit as I might have been excited by the prospect of some Heineken Cup rugby. The mystery destination turned out to be the Royal Yacht Britannia moored at Leith and we had a great tour with excellent commentary via handset for thirteen of us and my beloved deciding to do the entire tour with Japanese commentary. Why? Because apparently it helped his Japanese... what Japanese?! Anyway, because he had Japanese commentary, he got round much quicker and found the onboard tea room where a late lunch had been planned. He actually had lunch whilst we were still touring but he managed a second one when the rest of us turned up.

Then it was back to the hotel for some and shopping for others. In my world, a small sleep was required in my jazzy room because I am at an age where I need to pace myself. No such worries for my beloved as he headed out for a beer or three. Then time to get ready for the main event in the evening.

Skip and Mrs Brocolli had organised a wonderful dinner in the private dining room at Hotel du Vin which was just a hop and a skip round the corner. Drinks in the Whisky Snug followed by a fabulous dinner in the Burke and Hare private dining room. Absolutely perfect and I felt especially privileged to be sitting next to the Birthday Boy for at least part of dinner. And then just when we're feeling relaxed and mellow... we're off clubbing!

Le Monde on George Street and, in particular, the Shanghai nightclub, is the scene of a previous big lash in Edinburgh and so in we went, raising the average age by at least ten years and generally doing the kind of dancing which my children would prefer me to do in another country, or at the very least, when they are not present. Yes, behaving in an age-inappropriate manner is what we do best. So we did.

Just before turning out the light in our hotel bedroom about 2.00am, I feel the need to text my older children and having informed them that I had a nightclub stamp on one arm and a tattoo of the saltire on the other, I fell fast asleep. Waking the following morning (did my room get more stripey overnight?), my children had helpfully responded to my text as follows: "Please tell me it's not a real tattoo" - obviously not, it's a transfer but it was a hell of a job to scrub it off. And from the other one: "Every time you go to Edinburgh you text me embarrassing things." There's no answer to that one. It's too close to the truth.

On Sunday morning ... eventually ... we turned down the 'more culture' excursion in favour of a hangover-busting cooked breakfast and some rather good shopping. Of course, my beloved decided the full Scottish breakfast with champagne would suit him best and that put him in a very jolly mood for our brief retail outing before joining the rest of the team for lunch at Harvey Nicks and the train home.

It was epic, unforgettable (and at least this time I can remember it all, even gangnam style in the club and the young man who danced next to Mrs Broccoli and I and felt the need to take his shirt off) and as soon as I have properly recovered and restored my home to order, I shall be ready for the next one.

Special, huge thanks to Skip and Mrs Broccoli for their brilliant organisation throughout and for all their generosity. Fab, fab, fab!

Thirteen of us on the Royal Yacht Britannia - the fourteenth was enjoying his first lunch!

Celebrating The Sisterhood

I've had a complaint! "Where's the blog gone?" Well, nice to know it's been missed in the first instance and my excuse can only be that it's January. My least favourite month and one which, in an ideal world, would be spent somewhere hot watching tennis ie The Grand Slam Plan*. Alternatively, I would be happy to hunker down in front of a roaring fire and a big screen television and watch the Australian Open, the whole box set of Sex and the City and any film with the late, great Heath Ledger. But this is the real world and although a certain amount of tennis-watching has occurred (not as easy as it sounds with England also playing cricket in India and therefore a bit of remote-wrestling with child 3 going on), most of my life is carrying on as what passes for normal in this house ie children 3 and 4 taking their first AS modules in subjects I know nothing about - psychology, mathematics and economics, work and general domestic drudgery. So to help the month along, I have been giving myself a few modest treats of meeting up with female friends I haven't seen for way too long.

Actually I was very slow in realising how important the women in my life, or the Sisterhood as I think of them, are. Growing up with three older brothers and then going to an all-girls school did nothing to endear my own sex to me and then, being a rather ambitious twentysomething when twentysomething women seldom made it to the boardroom apart from when they brought in the tea, I was rather out of step with most of my female co-workers. So the penny didn't drop until my late twenties when I met and made friends with some amazing women and that in itself made me reassess the lovely chums I already had.

Now the thing about the Sisterhood is that they share - not in some weirdy, tree-hugging way, but in a practical, helpful way that is both informative and inspirational. The stuff that you really need to know about bringing up children, for example,  isn't written in books, it's acquired through the sharing of experiences. And then there's all the other amazing stuff they know.

For instance, in the last couple of weeks I have met up with two girlfriends who have explained firstly, in terms a non-skier can understand, the sport of telemark skiing, the social media trend of unboxing and how far pvc windows have progressed in both looks and energy efficiency. Seriously, the women I know are terrific. They can cook stuff that is far too complex and difficult for me and then explain it to me so I can cook it (or think I can anyway); they counsel me through angst about children of all ages; they found charities, run businesses, fight and win the battle against life-threatening illness and top that off with writing books, painting (and not just in the decorating sense) and have all manner of musical talent. Some of them are doing all the above and knocking off a Open University degree as well. And when they're not doing that, they are beating me at tennis and golf - and that really hurts!

Like all mums, there are so many things I want to tell my daughters and they probably don't want to listen and as in all things, we must find our own way and make our own discoveries. I just hope it doesn't take them as long as it did for me to discover the importance of The Sisterhood. Actually, because I have three very smart girls, I know they are way ahead of me.

Postscript: Finally, because it's the start of a new year, here are few serious and not very serious wishes of my own for 2013:

1    That the front half of the sports section of the newspaper isn't always about football.

2    That people who have no intention of playing any kind of sport (ever) don't wander round in tracksuits (although onesies are worse!)

3    That they stop digging up the same section of main road over and over and over again - surely they know if they're going to have to put another set of wires or drains in.

4     That struggling town and city centres offer more free parking to encourage rather than discourage people to shop there.

5     That this time next year we will still have some bookshops on the High Street - use them or lose them.


*The Grand Slam Plan is to see all four Open Tennis events around the world. Three down and one to go (Wimbledon, Roland Garros, Flushing Meadow and hopefully, January 2015, Melbourne).

Mmm... Heath Ledger