Ridiculous Evenings

For twelve years I didn’t know what an evening was.
Well not in the way that most people have evenings.
The ridiculous life of an actor meant that evenings were all about entertaining others, if you’re lucky enough you find a tribe to work with.
At school I was guided by Mr.Rangely who grabbed my wrist and told me I would go to drama school.
He drove me to auditions, paid for them, and encouraged me to act by casting me as the lead in ‘Hobsons Choice’. The thrill of getting a laugh and playing an audience.
When I got into drama school I met John. A clever young man, older than me, who wore a green pop art shirt and went to church.
We started writing together. He became an award winning radio producer. We still talk 60 years down the line.
I worked with Pip Simmons, in his avant garde theatre group.
Evenings at the Artslab in Drury Lane, stepping over cannabis fuelled artistes – the anarchy of youth.
Walking through London at night was never a problem.
Night buses and greasy spoon caffs. Fried bread and mugs of builders tea.
The actors life for me. The freedom of endless nights and all night cinema.
Three weeks before I left drama school I bought the ‘Stage’ newspaper. In a box on the back page Watford Palace Theatre advertised looking for actors.
I auditioned, on the stage whilst the crew were setting up for the evenings performance. I got the job. I learnt about cletes to hold up scenery. I learnt about lighting, how to listen for cues and how to tiptoe back stage whilst the show was on. I stood in the wings, adrenaline pumping, as the bubbling chatter of an expectant audience fuelled the excitement.
The very auditorium I had sat in throughout my childhood.
Whatever my mother wasn’t she was most certainly an encouragement for my career.

‘If she wants to be an actress’ she snapped at the careers officer. ‘Then she’ll be an actress.’
My life mapped out. I knew from the word go that I would be standing on stage. Never doubted it.
I came into this life with the clearest of intentions.
My first proper theatrical run was in Ken Campbells ‘Old King Cole’ I played Princess Daphne.
Hair in bunches and black eyeliner. I used the same pencil for the whole of the run, superstitious that were I to change to another pencil I would fall apart.

After the evening show we would retire to the theatre bar. A delicious snug with chandeliers and shiny wooden wood.
Bitter lemon and crisps. Comraderie and conversation.
‘Time Out’ the magazine of choice, listed films and theatre productions. I read through them all, memorised the directors and actors, and went to as many as I could afford. Tickets were mangable then. To see a show now it’ll cost you £300 without the Maltesers.

Driving through the lanes of Leicestershire was my next job. I still talk to the actors from 1972, most of us have health issues.
Driving fast over hump back bridges, heads hitting the ceiling of the VW camper van.
Setting up the show in schools, taking down the scenery when we’d finished. The energy needed to be a working actor required commitment and a jolly disposition.
Travelling on a motorbike through Holland, locking myself in my room in Edinbrough. Working with hairy men, being the only woman in the troupe, evenings spent watching other actors ply their trade.
Being part of a new theatre group we spent most evenings in pubs in Tufnel Park, working out shows and drinking pale ale.
And then ending up in the West End.
I managed ten months in a play after which I couldn’t take the repetition.
But I would still drive to Leicester Square, park outside the theatre and slip in to watch the old git perform.
I laughed every time. I think I miss that more than anything else about him.
He was a fiercesome actor, with impeccable timing. I would stand at the bak of the stalls and relish his performance.
That was the first time being an audience was a pleasure.
Not so much for other productions; the critical brain kicks in. The competitive nature of the actor. Comparisons and criticisms.
Then I met Terry Frisby, who wrote ‘There’s a Girl in my Soup’, he introduced me to proper omelettes and late night eating. I went to live in his house in Cloncurry Street. The alphabetical roads led onto Fulham Palace Road which had a green grocer called ‘Ivor lemon’ and pubs that doubled as music venues. Pumping bass lines filled the air.
Evenings were spent either performing or going to gigs. from ‘Ian Dury and the Block Heads’ to ‘The Police’.
Oh yes us oldies had rich pickings.
Most of those venues have closed down.

But I was introduced to ridiculous evenings of French cuisine and smoky bistros full of out of work actors.
Busy, noisy restaurants with linen serviettes and cheap bottles of red wine. I was taught how to unfold the napkin and throw it over my knees. I was taught how to work the cutlery from outside in and how to treat waiters.
I revelled in late night activity.
A far cry from my home life.
I absorbed how to be an actor by eating with actors and lapping up their theatrical stories.

Television was a whole different ball game.
Doing a run in a theatre meant instant familial connections. Months of living in a dressing room. The ritual of makeup and working an audience. On telly, the kind of stuff I did, meant the audience was imagined.
Working to a camera and listening to the director in your ear. Reading autocues and dumping the script when the show was over. Instant gratification then writing the script for the following day.

My evenings now are spent in front of the fire bingeing on box sets.
I have knitting I don’t do and books I don’t read. I have records I don’t listen to and games I don’t play.
Working out how to live the life of an oldie is getting clearer.
Slumped in a soft armchair and talking on the telephone is now….

But I’m about to join the University of the Third Age, and then i shall reclaim my nights. Creative writing and learning Italian, knitting and nattering and meeting others in the local hostelry.
Filling my evenings with ridiculous activity. What goes round comes round.