So, yesterday we all met up in a rehearsal studio in London for the first read-through. Hugely exciting and, of course, I’m late courtesy of SouthWest Trains and exploding children – Son 2 was up all night with tummy trouble, and we fear he won’t make it for his class assembly. I leave the house with trepidation, and guilt. When I arrive, everyone’s there, probably for the first and last time before we actually perform the piece – Sue, Eugenia, Jamie, Anthony, Perrin, Fiona, Deb and me. I’m awestruck by the experience. The script couldn’t be more perfect, the actors and directors more committed. Have to sit through our frontroom recordings of the music, cringeing inwardly. I bring out the buknuk and demonstrate how it looks great as a wimple – Perrin demands that we have a tour wimple with “Fallen 2006″ on the back. He’ll regret it. I then talk too much about early modern nuns, women, courts, priests and porn etc. It’s OK to push the crap button, as my PhD supervisor calls it, but I don’t know when to stop. Or, at least I realise about five minutes too late. “Sorry, I’m crapping on again, aren’t I? I’ll stop talking now,” and I fold my hands in my lap and stare at the floor. To be fair, no one was looking bored, but they’re actors, right?
Anthony, Perrin and I have a drink in the pub while sorting out finer points of the music, and then I set off for my friend’s, bottle of rose in my case. I arrive about 8.30, and it’s like we’re teenagers again. We talk until after 11pm – her kids are slightly older than mine, 14 and 12, so they just did their thing and put themselves to bed. She doesn’t have a copy of her book at home, but assures me that she hasn’t revealed anything untoward about me. Phew. We talk about relationships, kids, old times – I tell her that after 9 years I still fall in love with my husband every day. He rocks my world and I fancy him something chronic. We agree that this is something very rare, and that I’m very, very lucky indeed.
I woke up at about 6am, which is normal, feeling sick as a dog, which is not. I realised that the night before I had at least half a bottle of wine, on only a bowl of watery soup in the pub and half a mango with Suz. Not normal, either, but not unmanageable, or so I thought (maybe she was pouring more in my glass than hers without me knowing). By around 8am I was really feeling rough and couldn’t eat a thing. Suz kissed me goodbye and left the house with her kids, telling me to let myself out. I left at around 9, and moved very slowly back to the Silverlink station. By the time I made it to the studio, I could barely stand up, and ended up losing my tea. In a break I witter a little about Renaissance attitudes to the voice, and women’s voices in particular, but can’t sustain even that, and wilt into a peevish heap.
Eventually, being no use to man nor beast I left the rehearsal and made my way back to Waterloo. I bought Suzanne’s book at WH Smith and read it on the train home – no editing in my state. It’s highly amusing, and didn’t shock me a bit, regardless of its reviews. Although I could never imagine myself in any of the situations she gets into, I just kept thinking, “That’s my girl!” She seems happy, which is what counts. Pete picked me up and brought me home, and I collapsed into bed for the rest of the afternoon. Still feeling rough at the end of the day.