Sugar Water Rehearsal Diary: Week 2

Genevieve is currently in rehearsal for a play which kicks off in London before going up to Edinburgh for the Festival. Here's her guest blog...

By Genevieve Barr, cast member

Genevieve in rehearsals at Graea

Exploding boxes, pyjamas, licking necks and lots and lots of baked beans.

After six months overseas, I returned to the UK last month to start rehearsals for a brand new play written by Jack Thorne, ‘The Solid Life of Sugar Water’. I play the part of ‘Alice’. My wonderful counterpart, Arthur, plays my husband ‘Phil’. And that’s it. There’s two of us. And sixty-six pages of script staring at us.

A tumultuous journey so far, we are finally reaching the end of the second week and gasping for a few days off – but there will be no resting on our laurels. Next week is the last week at Graeae before we take the production to Plymouth, and a dawning of dread is already starting to swirl around my ankles.

So let’s not talk about that.

I am fortunate to have some very supportive friends, whom this week, have kept me in reality check. For when asked about my day, the other day, I said:

“This morning I was experiencing the beginnings of foreplay in bed, this afternoon I went to the cinema, an art gallery and had a kiss on a bridge. I don’t know which one – the text doesn’t say.”

Bless them, because rather than get bogged down the details, they turned to me and said:

“Gen, what on earth are you talking about?”

And that’s the real struggle as you get more and more immersed in this beautiful play, you start to go slightly insane. Acting isn’t about playing the role, it’s about becoming the role. And so, every day ‘Alice’ becomes more Genevieve and Genevieve becomes more ‘Alice’. You might as well start calling us ‘Genalice’.

Thank goodness my character’s name is not ‘Tilda’.

(Try taking the first two syllables of my first name, and the first syllable of ‘Tilda’ and see if you get what I mean)…

Probably not that funny. Sorry.

When I first read the play, two things became immediately transparent to me:

1) This would be one of the toughest roles I’ve had the fortune to play.

2) My granny was definitely, firmly, assertively NOT allowed to come and see it. Our relationship would never recover.

To pinch some of Jack Thorne’s words when he was talking about the play the other day, it is a story about recovery. The couple are trying to deal with a very traumatic event – with the death of a newborn baby and through their grief, their relationship has deteriorated. They have to rediscover why they loved each other in the first place and deal with having sex for the first time since it happened. We will take you through a journey of our relationship – flashing back into the past, but also trying to have sex- an uncomfortable experience both textually and literally.

At least for me – I can’t speak for Arthur!

For while Phil and Alice have been married for a few years, Arthur and Genevieve have only known each other a couple of weeks. The trust and amount you have to give each other in a very short period of time is immense. It isn’t always easy – but we are getting there.

Amit, our director, does a great job of keeping me sane (ironically, for those who know him). He understands which buttons to push with me.

At the start of the week, I was really grappling with with the physical aspects of the play – the movement on the bed (for the bed is upright against the wall, so when we are lying down, we are standing up and when we are standing up, we are lying down)…the mind just boggles. There are a lot of technical aspects to figure out – for the play jumps back and forward, in fact it just hops all over the place. During all of this, I have been trying to understand who my character is and why she feeling the way she is – in every word, sentence, paragraph of the play.

We are getting there – and I am proud of the amount of progress we have made – though there is still a way to go. So it is with excitement, tremulation and slight trepidation that I look ahead to next week and what it brings.

Back in the Saddle Again... part 2

I posted a couple of weeks ago that I had decided I would start the annual Acorn Charity 100k (that's 62 miles in old money) Sponsored Bike Ride http://www.acorncharity.org.uk/index.php?option=com_content&view=frontpage&Itemid=17which took place last Saturday. A number of people kindly got in touch to say that they would sponsor me as I would be cycling in aid of Acorn (dementia and scleroderma research) and the Sir Robert Ogden Macmillan Centre at Harrogate Hospital where I had some of my cancer treatment. The deal, if you read the blog, was that I would only cycle if the weather was very, very kind. But then, so many folks offered to sponsor me that I felt that there would have to be the combination of a tsunami, tornado, snow drifts and a plague of something from the Old Testament (frogs, locusts etc) for me not to cycle. Hoist by my own petard, as it were.

I did the absolute minimum of training - 3 rides including 1 fall and then the weather was too wet and windy to do anything more. I had originally planned to cycle to Helperby on Bike Ride day which is 11 miles but then I was getting giddy with the thought that I might be able to cycle further so I settled on Easingwold which is 17 miles and I thought that I could do that fairly comfortably. You see, the thing is, I think I can do these things, and then once I start, my competitive spirit kicks in and I don't want to stop. However, realistically, and given that I have my first 3-month cancer check-up this Thursday, I simply have to squash that instinct and be sensible - duh! (There's a first time for everything!)

My next challenge was to acquire a cycling buddy as the singing, dancing doctor couldn't face doing another care-in-the-community cycle ride with me, as he so kindly calls it. But my most long-standing cycle partner actually volunteered for the job and his girlfriend Mandy even more kindly volunteered to pick us up from Easingwold.  Tim was the most wonderful cycle buddy because a) he always has lots to chat about and b) unbeknownst to me prior to the event, he is very strict!

Now when I woke up on Saturday morning, as my beloved crashed about in preparation for a day's Acorn signage duty (and a very nice lunch in Helperby apparently!) I looked out of the window and it was both drizzling and blowing. Not good omens. Resisting the very strong urge to turn over and go back to sleep, I donned the lycra and loaded the car with the cakes that I and my friend Susan had spent all of Friday knocking out. The Acorn Bike Ride is rightly famous for its cakes!

At Bishop Monkton Village Hall all was as it always is on Bike Ride day. As I pulled into the car park, Roly, our longtime car park attendant didn't recognise me straight away - a big reminder to me that I am not the person I was twelve months ago. The usual razzmatazz of cyclists greeting each other, registering and doing the last minute checks on their bikes. And then the lovely Tim arrived and we got ready to go.

When you haven't done a lot of cycling in a very long time, it's hard to get your rhythm but we soon got going and as I waved goodbye to number 2 child who was marshalling at the start, Tim told me that he had had the very hard word from herself that 'Mummy is not allowed to do too much'. Tim told me that he had joined the club of folks who are more scared of number 2 than they are of me and that we would be stopping at Easingwold whatever!

So an hour or so later we got to Easingwold but I wasn't done yet! With a bit of cajoling my cycling buddy reluctantly agreed to cycle as far as Stillington which is the last proper place to stop before Sheriff Hutton which is half way and lunch - and which the old me would usually have eaten at about 10.30am. As we reached Stillington, the rain started to come down and waving goodbye to braver, fitter folks who were continuing, we loaded our bikes in the boot of Mandy's car and with Chloe, the terrier, on my lap acting as a hot water bottle, we headed back to Bishop Monkton for cakes and tea - the only time I have been back first ever! The first proper cyclist who had done the whole route arrived half an hour later.

So, first of all, thank you to all the marshals, registration team, kitchen teams, car parking (especially Roly), water stops, signage crew, Giles and Jenna for taking the photographs http://www.gilesrocholl.com/, Chevin Cycles http://www.chevincycles.com/, St John Ambulance and all the cyclists taking part who raised over £35,000. A special thank you to Tim and Mandy who kept me safe, stopped me doing too much - even when I wanted to - and were great buddies in my own personal challenge.

If you offered to sponsor me for either Acorn or the Sir Robert Ogden Macmillan Centre at Harrogate Hospital, thank you so much. I cycled 21miles or 34.5k. If you would like to send me a cheque to either of those causes, that would be wonderful. If you would prefer to BACS me, just message me with which charity you would like to support and I will send you my bank details.

This will be my last Bike Ride as part of the Acorn Committee as the time has come for me to resign and do other things with my life. Being so ill makes you re-evaluate what challenges and adventures are still left to take on. But Acorn has been a big part of my life for 15 years and some of the things we have achieved in that time will be highlights of my life. And friends I have made through Acorn will be with me always. Thank you.

Channelling my inner Mrs Bennet

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."

How times have changed! Mrs Bennet would have been in a state of over-excited mob-cap vapours if she, like me, found herself at the start of Pride and Prejudice with two daughters engaged. Yes two! We were floating along in a state of calmness and spreadsheets with the proposed nuptials of number 2 daughter to JS, son-in-law-to-be in November when up pops number 1 with the exciting news that she too has a ring on her finger of the engagement kind and is planning a wedding next May. Or rather we are planning a wedding next May. That, of course, means two weddings in a space of six months - or 'doing a Barker' as we call it in this village.

So wedding progress so far... number 2, a true accountant and always more grown up than the rest of us put together, on her engagement last summer, immediately initiated spreadsheets, budgets, guest lists (over which we had no control and therefore no responsibility) and plans. She researched venues and she and JS presented us with a shortlist which we then visited with them. Her sisters were selected as suitable bridesmaids and despite the fact that as a family we have not all been together since last September, bridesmaid dresses were selected down to a shortlist of two. The wedding dress was chosen, church visited, colours for bridesmaid dresses, flowers, chair covers, band, dance floor, food, cake, wine... have I forgotten anything? And all with the minimum of fuss and in the manner of a benevolent dictatorship. Then the inevitable happened and there was a slight wobble about the colour of things and a new directive was issued. All calm.

At this point I, of course, am quietly having a Mrs Bennet-like mild fit of the vapours (not quite at the smelling salts stage) because I don't know what to wear. Having an appearance which can only be described as 'fluid' over the last twelve months, it's hard to imagine myself in full mother-of-the-bride regalia. However I am sure once my Annie Lennox look grows into something more luxuriant (hoping anyway) it will be easier to go and try things on and grasp the nettle as it were.

Then two weeks ago on a mother and daughters 2 and 4 weekend in Edinburgh which was my lovely treat from the aforementioned siblings, number 1 and Valentine, the boyfriend, ambushed me in our Saturday night restaurant of choice. Of course, the sisters had organised this and it was wonderful to see the child I had not seen since October. But, unknown to her sisters, she had also received a proposal from her bf - now fiance - on her favourite beach on Colonsay and was now sporting a very sparkly solitaire. Excellent.

Fast forward two weeks and we are now working on a second wedding which is a completely different ball game - if you'll pardon the pun as touch rugby has definitely been mentioned. And here we are again with rather less spreadsheet precision, a lot more variables, suggestions of fairground attractions (not the band of the same name), different types of tent, multiple bridesmaids, wellies and a whole lot more. This will be interesting...

And in the meantime, we have been to another wedding where I am practically making notes on proceedings for future reference and where I was honoured to read the lesson. Not the lesson about the dinosaurs which was full of comedy value but the one about the art of marriage which was very serious and absolutely lovely and I only nearly cried once whilst reading.

So this is the current state of play. We shall, as Mrs Bennet would say, be very poor, pulling off two weddings. But we shall be very happy and most importantly, my beautiful older two daughters will be marrying wonderful life-long partners both of whom are undoubtedly the best boyfriends they've ever had.* Now we just need the other two siblings to wait until the family coffers have recovered before following suit.

*They have previously had some delightful and some less delightful boyfriends. All I'm saying is that you have to kiss a lot of frogs!!!

Fairground Attraction singing Perfect - exactly what these weddings will be: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txapREGWHp0

My beautiful girls!

Easy Money

I've been to a lot of creative writing events over the years and wrote this short story from the imagined other side of the fence. With only moderate apologies to Paul Morley...

Easy Money

The author swings through the glass doors of the boutique hotel. Boutique hotel in boutique town. Everything smells of middle class comfort. He's met by the volunteer, a cheery lady more accustomed to marshalling girl guides than marshalling the literati. She shows him to the room where he is to conduct the creative writing class.

The big dining table is a snug fit in the room and not at all what he had envisaged. When the literature festival organiser had emailed him and asked if he would discuss writing with a group of would-be writers he had imagined a cosy scattering of chairs where he could roam the room at will discussing the finer points and giving his views on the questions of the morning. Instead he is trapped at the end of the table whilst the delegates make their way to the empty spaces around him.

It's 11.00 and he must start, conscious that every eye is resting on him, waiting for his brilliant insight, examining his appearance - 80s journalist chic, black shirt, loose dark jacket, stubble and surprisingly manicured hands with which he conducts the class. He asks them to introduce themselves and each in turn gives him something they want him to know about them. 

There are three PR women - how could it be that a town with more tea shops than businesses and pubs combined can have so many PRs? There are a couple of older guys who have probably been sent out by their wives who want them out from under their feet whilst they cook Sunday dinner. But there are two students too - one who breathes her name so quietly: "I'm F..." it comes out so he is scarcely the wiser. Fay apparently. And there's a young man who wants to be a music journalist. Now here's something the author can understand, whose greatest moments were defining albums by angry young men for a music paper. But the young man's dialogue is smattered with likes and yunnos and he muses whether his written prose is the same.

Then there's Carol. Not 'Hi I'm ..." but "I am Carol". Big voice, big blond hair and a big bow on her big chest. She tells the author that her daughter is an actress - as if that has anything to do with the price of fish but she wants him to know. As if, "I'm not just another of these losers." Beyond Carol and F...there's a shiny-topped little man who wants to talk about poetry. Why is he here?

They all turn their attention back to him and it's 11.20 so he talks about how he started writing. Nothing personal, just the process as it was when he started, pens and paper, typewriter ribbon. He talks about music journalism and sees the young man straighten in his seat, already brimming with his own imagined  success. The author talks about the abbreviation of journalism, the fast-fix statements for a time-short reading public that wants its answers in grading systems and simple answers, not in the beautiful sentences the author wants to write. It's noon and suddenly everyone wants to talk.

They talk, not listening to each other but to their own voices, about the closure of book shops, about reviews so short they're scarcely worth the name, about kindles and second hand book shops and vinyl. The room is alive and the author leans back in his chair, relaxed, and discretely checks his watch. 12.20.

This is easy. He can sit and listen to them giving their opinions, but "my daughter is an actress, you know..." crackles him back to life. How did the music journalist from Stockport find himself here amongst the middle aged and middle class? He's written a book about the North but it isn't this North, this neat and tidy, doing something to occupy retirement North. His North is bleak and dirty, warm and brassy and this might be ... Surbiton.

One of the retired men starts a long ramble about the kind of people you meet on a tall ships cruise and he stops him, exerting an unexpected rein on the pointless chatter. He reads to the group from his photocopied notes. Gobbits of laudable advice about writing, mantras of authordom. They listen again, intently, jotting notes and names of suggested writers. Taking down their own homework.

Now it's 12.50. The author sighs the start of his wrap-up. He's completed the task, earned his crust, maybe sold a book or two and he can smell the pint foaming into a tall glass in the nearest pub. The class push back their chairs and start to file towards the door with thanks and goodbyes. He's released.  He gathers his papers, pausing to shake hands with the young man who wants to write about music. A few of the class want a few words with the author, the rubbing off of stardust, making the imagined connection and then he's away, into the genteel foyer of the hotel, scouting around for the young porter he had sen on his arrival. 

"Where can I get a beer?" he asks, hoping the rapidly intensifying sense of urgency is apparent to the liveried young man. The porter is well-trained and nods in the direction of the chintzy hotel bar.

"No. An actual pub," explains the author. He's got it. The porter gives directions and the author is on his way, delighted to find that a real pub, not a franchised, sanitised bar for the chattering classes, is a short step away.

He stumbles into the beer-brown gloom of the old-fashioned boozer and nods at the pump of his choice to the tired barman. Seldom was a pint so anticipated, so welcome. He hands over the coins and pulls the pint towards him, lifting it to his lips for the first taste to swill into his mouth and down his throat. He feels a hand on his arm. It is the small shiny topped man.

"I thought I might find you here. I'd like to read you some of my poetry."

Back in the Saddle again...*

On Saturday 9th May I am going to start the Acorn 100k Bike Ride. Not in the sense of firing a gun or similar combustion device nor indeed standing at the start wishing good luck to the assembled lycra-clad lads and lassies as they head off. No indeed, I'm going to pedal.

When I started this (I won't call it 'journey' - so X Factor, I always think) life-changing experience it was almost exactly a year ago. We were in Barcelona celebrating 30 years of marriage and we were having a fab time - walking, wine, tapas, sightseeing, wine, tapas, watching Rafa... more wine, tapas etc. In the shower on our last morning I found a lump and since then things have been ... well, different. 

Anyway not to dwell on that stuff, as I write this morning I am waiting for the nice nursey to arrive to give me my ninth herceptin injection of eighteen (yes, half way there, folks) and she will stay with me for a couple of hours until she is confident I am not going to have a fit. I think I would have had one by now if I was going to but Health and Safety demands etc... The injection is the size of a comedy injection - yes really! Think very big syringe here! But apart from a bit of dead leg and usually an attractive purple bruise on my thigh (disappointment for those of you who imagined the injection elsewhere to add to the comedy) it's all ok. 

The nice nursey always asks when she comes every three weeks carrying all her needle paraphernalia, oxygen etc whether I am taking any exercise as most patients at this point apparently think that walking the dog is demanding and start proper exercise at the end of the 18 needle-jabbing events. Hmm. In January I confirmed that I was walking the dog/dogs (depending on whether Milton, daughter's dog was in residence) twice daily. In February, I confirmed that I was now doing a little light gym work - why can I only lift 3k with my left arm? March, yes I am back on the tennis court but huffing and puffing like an old horse. Anyway it's now April and I am back on the bike! (Not sure what she'll have to say about this).

When I knew what treatment lay ahead last summer, I set out in my mind what things I wanted to be able to do during the process. First one was James and Georgina's wedding which coincided with the first day of proper hair fall-out. But I was there. Then I managed just one hour at the Acorn Million Pound Ball - or rather me and Freda, the wig. And the next thing is that I wanted to be able to start the Acorn 100k Bike Ride. And here we are, just two weeks away and I have done precisely 3 bike rides - might have done more up to this point but a) I fell off and b) tennis is soooo much more fun! 

So given the events of the past twelve months, I do not expect to get much further than Easingwold (17 miles) but I'm going to try. If there is any form of wind or precipitation - rain, hail, snow, plague of locusts, frogs etc - I will not even start. However in the event that I do, if you would like to support me, anything I raise will be split equally between Acorn and the Sir Robert Ogden Macmillan Centre at Harrogate Hospital. This list of conditions is way too complicated for JustGiving so if you are happy to support me just message me/comment/email me words to the effect of 'I'm In'. Then I will get in touch with you afterwards if I have managed to cycle.

Thank you!

Me in fitter years just starting the Bike Ride - waving, cycling and not falling off!

*Just in case you want to pick up on the musical trivia...https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSqcxFGFVas 

"Hullo clouds, hullo sky"

The other day I was exclaiming about how delightful and entertaining the lambs in our field were when I heard one of the children (who are, of course, all adults now) say: "Uh oh, mum's getting weird again." Followed by "She's going to take a picture of the lambs and put it on facebook" with heavy sarcasm. Yes, I am coming over all Fotherington-Thomas.

For the uninitiated, Fotherington-Thomas was often heard to say "hullo clouds, hullo sky", loved all things girlie especially nature and was unfortunate enough to be at school at St Custard's with the dastardly but highly entertaining Nigel Molesworth.

All this happens in Down with Skool, How to be Topp and my personal favourite, Whizz for Atomms - which should be standard reading for children even now - though is not very pc regarding spelling.

Anyway after that long digression, I am loving the arrival of spring in an entirely Fotherington-Thomas manner. Last winter was the darkest winter in my world and back in the autumn, I did not expect, nor could I begin to imagine, the arrival of spring. In late summer, the garden had become not only the National Collection of Dandelions (so named by the singing, dancing doctor - thank you) but was beginning to look like the Amazon rainforest. The marvellous Andy who came to help us out and is even now painting my banisters (no, this is not metaphor for anything else!) as I write, machete'ed down the weeds, dug the beds, attacked the overgrown hedges and... planted my bulbs. Too ill and exhausted to have any input whatsoever, he asked me where I wanted the bulbs and I told him to put them in wherever. So I am looking at not only a brilliant display of colour but also a surprising one, with hyacinths and daffodils and, in due course, tulips, popping up all over the place.

And walking the hairy hounds every morning I am loving all the wild stuff as well. Last night when I tricked my beloved into going on a long walk as part of his stoutness exercises (thank you, Pooh!) I was exclaiming about violets and celandines, whilst he replied stuffily with "I thought this was just a short evening stroll."

So I am now completely going over to the dark side, becoming Fotherington-Thomas with no boundaries and I can't wait for the bluebells! Yes, children, mum is getting weird again!

And because I have had such fun (turning into Miranda now...) writing this, I am going to share with you one of the finest pieces of advice for all children made to write thank you letters by their well-meaning and well-brought-up parents. Enjoy!

The Unexpected Phone Call

Last Friday I had an unexpected phone call. Not entirely unexpected but certainly someone I had never spoken to on the phone before. It was a very close friend of a very close friend - literally. By way of explanation, this is a close friend of my close friend who lives just down the road, except that her close friend lives a long way away. Over the last thirty years we have met perhaps half a dozen times.

The reason why the call wasn't entirely unexpected was because she has breast cancer. She is just hitting the wall that I hit last June and she is in a very dark and scary place. I want to help her. Listening to her tell me what had happened so far reminded me of the place I found myself back then. There's a bench at the bottom of our garden where I did a lot of crying, staring at the garden and wondering whether I would make it through to see it bloom again.

So I listened to her fears, the jarred information, the million anxieties and worries and I found myself right back there. And I wondered how I could practically help. So over the last few days I have tried to work out what words of wisdom have been passed to me that I can pass on. There is nothing original or even rare about breast cancer so all I can do is try to pass on the good advice that I found to be true and worked for me.

Firstly, try to divide the treatment into manageable pieces. It isn't manageable, of course, it is bloody but at the beginning I just thought that at best I am going to be ill for a year. My cancer buddy (my tennis partner and seriously top girl) told me early on that each step is progress. So going to my gp with my lump was my first step and going to the hospital my second. After that came the surgery and chemotherapy and so on, but my new friend is having these the other way round. And each round of chemo is another step. The timescale is incredibly daunting. A year of my life, I thought. But Julie who did my reflexology (of which more later) reminded me that I was not ill for the whole three weeks of the chemo cycle and actually the really hideous bit only lasts a few days. Suddenly the time seemed not so long.

The second thing which I was constantly told and had to learn the hard way, was listen to my body. As the most competitive (in every sense - even board games) person I know, pushing myself and my body is second nature. I know now that when my body says 'enough', enough it must be. I pay big time if I push myself too hard - even now.

Accept help. I'm not used to doing this, feeling that I should be the one helping and not the other way round. Friends and family will, I promise, be amazing and will want to help you. Let them. People will amaze you and they genuinely want to help. The fact that 15 trips to hospital in Leeds in January - a round trip that usually took a couple of hours - were all undertaken by my friends and my children and didn't mean that my husband had to miss work is a testament to that. And actually made the whole process quite jolly rather than utterly miserable.

Look after yourself. I was advised not to go to busy places - in my world this was supermarkets, shops, cafes, restaurants, trains, cinemas, theatres, big parties, church, rugby matches etc. Once chemo starts you need to focus on making sure you don't pick up any infections as your immunity will be zip. For chemo to continue and therefore for you to get to the end, you need to pass your blood tests. White blood cells rule, OK. Also drink lots of water.

Take the drugs you are offered for the side effects and don't be brave. I took anti-depressants (after I nearly became an axe murderer) and sleeping pills as well as the ones for nausea, diarrhoea and constipation as required. Try complementary therapies - who knows how reflexology works but it was the best hour of my week for several months.

Two hard ones here from a dear friend who has had poor health for most of her adult life. Hard to accept and understand but it helped me to get to grip with these. Ultimately you are on your own in this - everyone who loves you wants to help but this is your fight alone. Do whatever it takes to get you through. No one can do this for you. Your family and friends can only stand on the touchline and cheer you on.

The second tough one is life goes on. It took me ages to work out what this meant but it really means everybody else's life goes on. You will no longer be the centre of things in the same way - there will be births and deaths, parties and celebrations, holidays and work. But not for you. But you will be treasured by your nearest and dearest in the most wonderful way. I thought of myself as the pooh stick stranded under the bridge watching the other pooh sticks sail by. But it's not forever. Just for a while.

Offload. Find someone to talk to who can support you in this. I had my brilliant cancer buddy who shared a lot of the misery and sadness with me. I will be there for you in this if you want me. I also spoke to the vicar who was absolutely wonderful and it was somehow easier because he didn't love me and therefore telling him how utterly miserable I felt wasn't so hard.

There is so much more I could say but perhaps, like the treatment, one step at a time. I hope this helps with all my heart.