…Battle scars

1. Heads. I have a scar on my top lip from when I was 2 years old. I was, conveniently enough, in the doctor’s surgery waiting room. I had a dummy in my mouth when another, older, taller kid came along and hugged me. Awww. Except the dummy’s plastic edge cut into my top lip. Imagine my mother’s delight at holding me down while the doctor did stitches. I screamed the place down and bled everywhere – including down the front of Mum’s white top. When it was done, I imagine the relief for mother and doctor would’ve been amazing. Amazing but brief. I wiped my mouth and managed to pull the stitches out. I deserve this scar, man.

2. Shoulders. I have a scar on my shoulder from the time I ran a little too close to a protruding nail in a very old, very dusty theatre. Oh fffff…iddle-dee-dee, that will require a tetanus shot.

3. Knees and… Hands. I stabbed my hand on a twig while downhill skateboarding (granted, there were three of us on it at the time) and still have the scar. I also had one of those big serated metal toilet paper dispensers fall off the wall and gash my left hand. It’s great that that’s the most prominent scar on my hands too – not at all embarrassing to explain. I accumulate wildly random scars on my hands, which makes me wonder if I should be allowed to leave the house – or even my couch – without gardening gloves on.

…Bloody sticky situations

1. Bloody hell.  It was the dress rehearsal for an amateur theatre show of my favourite age-inappropriate role.  Mid-scene, I was bellowing at my stage husband, “Why don’t you love me?” and charged towards him.  I felt my bare foot slip.  The scene continued towards its tender ending, when I noticed my foot was sticking to the old, splintery floorboards on the stage.  At blackout, I went off stage and into the fluro-lit kitchen of the hall – drip, drip, drip went my blood onto the off-white lino.  I didn’t even feel pain until that moment.  Just stickiness.

2. ‘Reel Blood’.  I was playing a psycho in a short horror film.  I had to beat someone up.  The ‘blood’ we used was corn syrup-based.  Someone may have got it on the antiques in the old Victorian mansion we were filming in.  I’m just saying.

3. A thing about blood.  Be warned, some things stick and won’t leave – in this case, it’s the title song from Into the Woods.  Mthrfckr.

Guess what?!  This isn’t a TTD!  See?  I haven’t forgotten how to write things outside a numbered list.  Yet.

Unfortunately, though, this is a year-in-review entry.  I know, I know, these are annoying and irrelevent.  But I just looked at my 2008 round-up and I can tell you one thing – this one will be shorter.

2009 was easily one of the most arse-kickingest years of my life, if not THE most arse-kickingest (me rite gud).  And most of this is due to magical strokes of luck, rather than any wisdom or cleverness or deserving on my part.  Which is kind of annoying, in a way – it’s annoying to have tried so hard for so long, only to discover that, sometimes, quitting is the best decision you could ever make.

The one thing I didn’t explicitly say at the end of 2008 was that I had quit.  I quit performing.  I didn’t care if I never got on stage again.  I wasn’t emotional about it anymore, either.  I was just done.  Then I got an email from someone I respect a lot asking me if I wanted to be in a cabaret show.  That was one thing I’d never tried and I still loved singing.  So I said yes.  Little did I know what other huge events I’d end up saying yes to as a result.

Then came the job upheaval.  I had a choice to make there too.  To stay on and do more of the same (in a thinly-disguised ‘different’ package), or to quit and see what happens next.  I quit.  And, lo, it was amazing.

Yes, luck, luck, luck.  There’s been a lot of luck flying around for me in 2009…

I was lucky this year that, by sheer coincidence, I travelled.  A lot.

I was lucky this year to discover that some amazing people believed in me enough to put me on stage without me having to beg or to organise it myself – other people actually said ‘yes’ to my brand of silliness.  And, in the process, to realise how much I still love being ‘up there’.  And to find guidance through a most excellent vocal coach.  Yeah, all this stuff kinda rocked.

I was lucky this year because a global financial crisis meant I was granted a second chance at, well, life.

I was lucky this year that, for one mad month at least, I got a glimpse of what life could be like if my luckiness became more permanent.

I was lucky this year that my long-held theory that I could be a freelancer has come to fruition.  So far, so good.

I was lucky that, once again, my resolution to have “more music in my life” continued to be realised.

I was lucky that, all the learning about fun I did in 2008 paid dividends in 2009.

I was lucky that I’ve not only kept all my delightful friends, but I’ve made some amazing new ones who I hope continue to influence me in wacky and wonderful ways.

And I was lucky this year because I, and the people closest to me, have remained healthy and safe.

(actually, my health track-record for 2009 was impeccable – two minor colds… and that’s it.  BAM!)

Luck, luck, luck.  It was everywhere this year.  I have no idea why.  And I have no idea what lies ahead for 2010 – whether it could possibly be as fortuitous as this year.  Or more so.  Or not.

But for this year I am immensely grateful.

…Close calls

1. I scream.  I was buying a double choc-dip from the ice cream van one afternoon when I was 11.  After our transaction, I had the cone in one hand and 80c worth of change in 10c coins in the other.  I stood in front of the van, about to cross the road, when he started his engine up like he was going to drive through me.  Suitably spooked, I ran out onto the road without looking.  And that’s when another car drove past and sent me flying.  At the top of the road, the driver got out of her hubcap-deficient, tinny, off-white vehicle.  “Are you alright?” she bellowed from the top of the hill.  “Yes,” I replied with a wobble.  And off she drove, leaving me sitting on the road surrounded by 10c coins, with half an empty cone in my hand.  My friend who saw the whole thing from across the street laughed.  “‘S not funny,” I told her.  The ice-cream man beckoned me over and gave me a free replacement double choc-dip – not that I felt like it anymore.  Had I been a moment sooner, I’d have surely gone under this car.  But as it was, my ankle, which bled because of the exposed screws on the shi!ty car that hit me, was the only thing injured.  Well, that and my faith in humanity* - and my taste for soft-serve.

2. Intoxication.  Back in Edinburgh, I did a wee video tour of our apartment.  This included showing “the people watching at home” our refrigerator, which was packed with a metric f’tonne of wine.  My favourite was one marked “ROSE”.  And I say “ROSE” because it was, without exaggeration, labelled in about a 700 point font.  In the process of dragging out the “ROSE” to show “the people watching at home”, I nearly smashed about 15 other bottles, in a cascade of glassy booziness.  Again, all’s well that ends well – no wine was harmed and, best of all, I caught my idiotic slapstick moment on video.

3. Dodge.  I was at the circus fairground dodge-’em cars once when I was 8 years old or so.  To this day I love dodge-’ems.  I hate spinning, I hate being upside down, I’m not a massive fan of heights.  But I can definitely get on board with a need for speed.  And if a few crazy collisions are involved, all the better.  I held my breath watching as the cars zoomed round and round when I saw it.  The purple one.  In that blurry, song-filled moment, I knew – I had to have the shiny, deep-purple metallic dodge-’em.  I watched it like a starving bounty hunter in the wilderness watches a wild boar – or an episode of Jamie Oliver via portable TV (an essential item for any adventurer).  Round and round it went until, finally, all the cars started to slow.  Determined to get my purple racer, I ran out onto the track.  Except they didn’t stop.  The cars all sped up again, and my beloved purple car came tearing towards me.  It hit me, I bounced onto the ‘hood’, and the guy driving it grabbed my arm and held onto me.  There I was, flailing about on the front of this little car, with a guy steering with one hand – and saving my limbs** with the other.  It was a close call, but fortunately it worked.  I got the purple car.  Oh and, like, I didn’t die (Darwin Awards, anyone?).

*Okay, it’s not THAT bleak.  But what a moll – am I right?
**People like him cancel out people like Mollface McMoll in the first story.  But, you know, that’s also a close call.

I didn’t want to write this post because I felt in danger of being all like ”and then THIS happened, and then THAT happened” – aka, the blog equivalent of making someone sift through 18,000 of your unfiltered holiday snaps.

But I do have to write something, otherwise I’ll be leaving a gaping hole in this vague chronicle of my life.  Plus, I need to move on with what’s on my mind now – or, rather, what should be on my mind now – which I fear I won’t be able to do until I tell this story.

So, in recounting the month that has just flown by, I’ll do my best to avoid the aforementioned pitfall of boring…

Let me preface this by saying that I’ve never done the full month of a festival before.  Most I’ve ever done is two weeks.  I’ve certainly never performed for 27 consecutive days before, as per our schedule for our Edinburgh Fringe debut.

So, based on my limited previous festival experience, I had the following expectations.

Cuisine a la Fringe

Expectation
I’ll get to cook healthy food in the apartment, thereby saving money and ensuring health simultaneously.

Reality

• Breakfast: Fruit and toast at the apartment (not the porridge I’d aimed for and quickly forgot about, but so far, so good)
• Lunch: Toasties from Baguette Express, paninis from Baguette Express, the occasional baguette from Cafe Lucano – all accompanied by these two phrases from me: “If I eat one more sandwich, I will turn into one” and “baguette-me-not”.  And once or twice there was the gleaming beacon of lunchtime deliciousness that is M&S food court – thanks Suz!
• Dinner: something ready-to-go from the supermarket, pizza slice from the van outside the Gilded Balloon (have chilli oil stain on jeans to prove it… mmm, chilli oil), Susie’s Wholefood Diner vegetarian deliciousness (ah, my people…), carrot sticks and hommous (giving my people a bad name), or a French martini (What?  There’s fruit in it…)

The apartment

Expectation
31 days in an apartment with 7 other girls.  I’ll probably hate them all after this.  And they’ll hate me.  I’ll probably spend a lot of spare time in cafes with free wi-fi, blogging my gripes.

Reality
We are the Sisterhood of the Travelling Leggings-As-Pants.  I heart each and every one of them (but not the leggings).  Hopefully I was at least bearable in return (even if I used the phrase ”baguette-me-not” on a daily basis).

Also, we stole free wi-fi in the comfort of our own apartment for the entire month.  Bam.

27 shows in a row

Expectation
Overkill and insanity

Reality
Had a freaking ball, night after night after night…

Special mention must go to closing night, when we all decided to go a bit bollocking crazy – the pronouncement of a ‘sexy eunuch’ before the madrigal, the utterance of “toots” after Belle’s butt-slap (this had been in the works for the full month), my own alterations involving the stepmother’s hand-mirror and an angry moonwalk from Aladdin, but most hilarious of all: Bella insisting Edward grab her boob in the Twilight sketch.  Corpse-o-rama.

Houses

Expectation
Ooh, I dunno, it’s our first year… they say the average house at the Fringe is 6.  Hopefully we won’t sink below 8.  Every night I fear that we’ll turn around in the opening number and be taunted by that ironical icon, the tumbleweed.

Reality
Average house?  78!!!  That means 2111 people came to our show!!!  Ahhhhaaaaaa!!!

Will people like us in the ‘burgh?

Expectation
I suspect so, but you never know till you go.

Reality
Just for the sake of handy reference (yeah, right):
***** – The Edinburgh Guide
**** – Hairline
**** – The Scotsman (praise aside, this was a beautifully-written review – and so totally got us)
***** – one4review
***** and other cool stuff from Edinburgh Festival Insider 
And a nice write-up from The Groggy Squirrel 

Best of all, though, our audiences clapped and laughed and cheered and talked to us afterwards and came back again.

Twitter

Expectation
Cute and fun idea of Brydie’s that the characters should have their own Twitter accounts.  Might glean us a bit more attention.

Reality
Our supreme Twitter presence (at one point, we were the most Tweeted show at the Fringe) got us on the front cover of Scotland on Sunday‘s ‘Fringe Review’ lift-out – in full-colour, full-page glory!!!  Ahhhhaaaaaa!!!

Flyering on The Royal Mile

Expectation
I’ll probably hate all humanity after this.

Reality
The first week, the sun was shining, punters were excited, performers were excited, everyone felt generous, and it was fun.  But by week three, there’d been enough rain and enough refusals that it was hard not to be at least a teensy bit bitter when somebody blanked you or was needlessly smarmy at you – or handed you a flyer they’d just been given by someone else!  If you don’t want to be flyered, don’t walk down the Mile at Fringe time!

Breathe, Daley, breathe…

Surprisingly, though, the most offensive people in the end weren’t punters, but other flyerers.  You’d expect a camaraderie, no?  And with the more civilised of us, there was.  But scores of others would get in the way, or even interrupt our conversations with punters, in order to accost them with their own shows.  So rude!

Anyone in a crawling tableaux wearing a lycra unitard (‘multi-tards’) is just asking to have their flyers lodged so far up their wahzoos they’d require intricate surgical removal.  Heed this warning for future years.

However.  Just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore, that you really just wanted to go back to Starbucks for a second nanna nap till showtime, someone would tell you that they’d seen the show and loved it.  And with that, you could put your spruiking smile back on again with ease.

Edinburgh ghost tour

Expectation
It’ll be a bit creepier than the last time I did it because this one’s at night.

Reality
Someone threw up and fainted.  It was like The Exorcist.  I don’t want to talk about it.

The Chippendales

Expectation
Greasy, fake-tanned, steroid-infused stripping that we’ll all have to be quite drunk for, but a bonding exercise for us all to go see it together (plus it’s in our venue and, hence, free).

Reality
Firstly, my expectations were fulfilled, except that we were relatively sober – but I’m grateful for this because, whether intentional or not (suspect not), this show was a work of comic genius.

The slow-motion, deeply unco strip to Enrique Iglesias’ I Can Be Your Hero (which we determined – from the military garb, the Statue of Liberty lit up on the backdrop, and the oh-so-subtle American flag boxers - was a tribute to the heroes of 9-11) may be the funniest thing I will ever witness in my life.  The mere thought of it still brings tears to my eyes.  The rest of us should retire.

The Red Hot Chili Peppers concert

Expectation
It’s right in the middle of town, it wasn’t too hard to get tickets, and they were only £18 or so for general admission – amazing!  Most of us are going, we’re all really excited, and having seen them years ago, I know they’ll do a great live show (even if singing is not Anthony Kiedis’ best talent).  I can see us all singing along and moshing and having a great time – one of the highlights of the month.   This will be awesome!

Reality
Turns out we didn’t have The Red Hot Chili Peppers tickets.

We had The Red Hot Chili PIPERS tickets.

Yes, that’s right – PIPERS.  As in, BAGPIPES.  As in, cheesy rock music featuring BAGPIPES.  I write BAGPIPES in caps because a loud, obnoxious ‘instrument’ (a word I use in the least musical sense possible) calls for a loud, obnoxious font.

Do you know what I hate more than BAGPIPES?

Nothing.

So yeah.

French martini anyone?