The Drowned Man

The blog is becoming far too smutty for my educated readers so I've decided to up the ante with a theatre review instead: *99% of readers leave*.

Not since I fell in love with 'Blood Brothers' in the nineties, (seems unbelievable now that I have examined it a million times, can recite it by heart and grimace every time I see it on a running order), have I been to see a show as many times as I have 'The Drowned Man'. Five to be precise.

I am addicted.  Completely.  Apparently I'm not alone in this as the Facebook group for addicts proves.  Every line/prop/character/cast member is analysed within an inch of their life on this group and it does make you think that people really have got too much time and money on their hands, until you find yourself joining right in.  I reckon it will become a support network once the blasted thing has closed, which is looming, on July 6th.

So what is it about this performance that is so compelling?  Immersive theatre is a steadily growing genre in this country, and worldwide, as a new generation of theatre-going public are desperate to be part of the action rather than just being spectators. Being a control-freak, the ability to dictate the show that I want to see when I go is definitely part of the draw.

The incredible phenomena of the 1-2-1 experience is also a huge pull.  Last night was the most terrifying encounter I have had there.  I followed a character called The Dust Witch for the first time as I figured I had to man up as it was probably my last visit.  Up until this point I have avoided an entire floor of the warehouse as I had no intention of coming face-to-face with a black-veiled figure in a shadowy desert.  I duly grew a pair and followed her religiously for twenty minutes or so before being taken by the hand and dragged into a pitch black room where she locked the door behind me.  She uncovered her face and then blindfolded me, made me run about a bit in the dark, threw a bit of sand at me and then whispered in my ear that I was about to be blinded by the sun whilst pushing me in front of what must have been a huge heated lamp of some sort.  Fascinating that I paid good money for this.  I am a bit of a pussy and did at some point wonder if I was actually going to come out alive and had to do a little bit of mantra-chanting, "It's just Drama, it's Drama, she's just acting, I'm sure she's a really nice lady..." etc, etc. to stop myself from having a heart attack.  It was completely exhilarating though, and, as I legged it to the bar immediately after being released to down a large glass of Pinot as quickly as possible, I revelled in the amazing experience of it all.

Many companies are attempting immersive these days but nobody gets it quite as right as Punchdrunk.  My Studio Executive ticket last night had me downing vodka shots whilst watching a lady float across a table in failing light before I'd even entered the performance.  Thinking about it, maybe I just like the huge amounts of available alcohol and the naked cowboys with big dongs, maybe it is nothing to do with 'art' at all?

Shelley came with me as a newbie last night and loved it too.  I would have dumped her otherwise, without a second thought. ;-)  She was totally up for exploring and we got over-excited as we found a trapdoor that was open and I crawled through it first, with her following in close pursuit.  Unfortunately, the trapdoor shouldn't have been open at that point and we ended up arriving in the middle of a floor that a huge dance was happening on with about 100 audience members watching.  I was 'escorted' to the side by a member of the crew and knew the same 'head-popping-up-in-the-middle-of-a-scene' fate was about to happen to Shell but was unable to stop it.  We laughed, a lot, then headed back to the bar to down more big wines.

Perhaps I will treat myself to one more sneaky visit before the curtain comes down. Maybe it would be better to leave on the high of last night though.  We shall see.  In any case, the blog needs to give up this slightly more cultured feel and head back to talking about booze and willies.  Although I did a fairly good job of keeping booze and willies involved in the cultural post...

Leaving on a Jet Plane

Stu's best mate is moving to Trinidad next week, as you do.  It suits Martin very well that after years of seriously playing the field he finally manages to settle down in the Caribbean - liking his style.

The imminent bezzie separation is obviously very traumatic, except it's not, because they are boys.  Apart from a slight increase in 'liking' of Facebook photos of the pair of them and some drunken song posting, you wouldn't really know it is happening.

Martin is an amazing bloke.  He was our best man.  I remember being so touched the night before our wedding when he presented Stu and I with individual gifts.  How thoughtful.  He bought me the most beautiful silver compact mirror that I carry everywhere with me to this day.  Typical Martin though, as I got a little bit emosh when I was thanking him he said: "Well, I couldn't decide between that and a vibrator, but I figured that you probably already had a vibrator."  Thanks mate.

It is his leaving do tonight which I bowed out of on grounds of the kids, but to be honest I think I'm way past the kind of caper he has planned.  It starts at 10pm.  I probably need not say anymore, but I will, it finishes at 6am tomorrow morning!  Really!  I think somebody needs to remind him that we are all nearly 40.  Stuart has had his head shaved and headed off into darkest Peckham to send his bezzie off in style.  I'm ruining his street cred here I know but if the truth be told he is slightly worried about the crazy finish time too.  This is quite a new occurrence for Stu, until a very few years ago he would party like a bastard for at least 12 hours at a time without batting an eyelid.  I guess it catches up with all of us in the end.

Stu is meant to be bringing Martin back here with him tomorrow to say goodbye to me and the kids.  I'll believe it when it happens, as when I didn't have kids the most horrendous end to an all night bender would be a house with somebody else's small kids in it.  Maybe he is more of a man than I am however...

Martin, we love you, we'll miss you.  Even though I hardly ever see you, your presence in the country will be mourned, especially by Stu, even though he may not admit it until about 5.55am tomorrow.  Real shame the wages are so low in Trinidad that you'll never be able to come back again so I guess we will have to dump the kids on someone and force ourselves out to the Caribbean at some point - it would only be fair to Stu.

Hip Hip Hip Hooray!

After a very stressful week I have discovered an easy solution to stopping the nervous breakdown in its tracks.  Put all of the piles of work out of sight and sit and drink wine in the sunshine.  Seriously, it's a bloody winner.  Why on earth didn't I think of this before?

We do get seriously over-excited about the weather in this country don't we?  The lack of guaranteed sunshine tends to ensure that it becomes the top topic of conversation as soon as the sun does decide to get his hat on.  I'm the worst culprit.  "Isn't it LOVELY", I must have said to everybody I have come across today and they have said back "ISN'T is just..."

The boys have had a long and extremely naked paddle in Granny and Grandad's garden all day.  Zak was pretty pissed off that he had to put his clothes on for lunch but I think willies at the Sunday lunch table is a step too far for Nomansland.

I spoke to Jenny in Australia last night who has never understood why I don't want to move my backside out to a country where it is sunny pretty much every day of the year.  I love the sunshine but surely the complete joy that a day like to today brings is partly due to the fact that it is a surprisingly rare occurrence?

One thing I'm not enjoying about the weather is the stupid ice-cream van that has decided to visit at 6.45pm a few times this week.  Really?  That's bedtime in our house.  Luckily my poor, deprived chidlings don't know what an ice cream van sounds like.  This isn't going to last forever though is it?  Zak will find out from someone with nicer parents soon enough that the weird tinny music doesn't actually come from the Child Catcher's wagon, meaing it is imperative that we stay inside and don't go near any windows...

Tomorrow I will have to hide the suncream and wine and dig out the piles and piles of paperwork instead.  Oh well, Mondays were made to be miserable and there is still a few hours of sunshine left in today.  At least at the moment myself and my kids are actually dressed suitably for the weather.  I've been in flip flops since March in eager anticipation of summer and Zak begs me every morning to take his fleece to school 'just in case'...  I blame his Godmother. ;-)

Almost an Alcoholic

I drink too much.  Fact.  I blame genetics.

It has never bothered me, at all.  However, as I begin to leave my mid-thirties (it's true Shell, we can't deny it much longer), I wonder if it should start to bother me more.

I read an article a few months ago on the rise of 'Almost Alcoholics':

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-25639406

...and thought the description fitted me beautifully.  I'm relatively sure I'm not a fully-fledged 'proper' alkie.  I have nearly never drunk alcohol whilst still in bed in the morning (Ibiza 1998 apart), I can go a few days off booze without pining for pinot (although I do tend to go to bed rather early) and I definitely never swing around the streets with stubble swigging out of a bottle of whiskey like they do on Eastenders; well it hasn't happened thus far.  I think I freaked the Year 8s out the other day when I was directing a rehearsal and told one of the boys to stand up and speak as if he was in an Alcoholics Anonymous Meeting and then I said, "but of course YOU wouldn't know what that was like...", which sounded the teensiest bit like I did.  Oh well, I'm leaving soon, never mind.

Anyway, back to the article.  There are five tell-tale signs that you have a drink problem. Number 1:

• You continue to drink despite at least some negative consequences

Erm, well if that includes a hangover, that would have to be a yes.  I cannot see how a hangover is a non-negative consequence of drinking and having done some L-O-N-G work days after a night on the piss I would say that is a definite negative.

Number 2:

• You look forward to drinking.

Forgive my naivety, but why would you do it otherwise?  I think I'm discounting this point as utterly ridiculous.

Number 3:

• You drink alone.

Yep, absolutely.  Possibly my favourite type of drinking when it involves champagne...

Number 4:

• You sometimes drink in order to control emotional and/or physical symptoms.

I can't say that I've ever drunk because I felt ill.  However, if I've had a bad day then this would definitely apply...

Finally, Number 5:

• You and your loved ones are suffering as a result of your drinking

Apart from the hangovers, I don't think I suffer because of my drinking.  The kids definintely don't.  Stu would suffer more if I didn't chill out with a glass of wine and my Dad disowns me when I don't drink so I think we are probably ok on this one.

Having done this 'test', I began to think I was a proper alcoholic in total denial.  So I tried out some of the questions on my nearest and dearest.  I don't think somehow though that Stu, Shelley, Sam and Anna give a balanced view of the population; that's why they are my nearest and dearest.

My drinking habits have changed since I have been working so hard.  I have been drinking nothing at all during the week and then drinking like a woman possessed at the weekends.  Still not healthy.  It really is my only proper-full-time vice left though, (if being mean to people doesn't count), so I don't think I'm willing to give it up, or even cut it down, unless I have to.

I reckon if my liver ever packs up and I can't drink anymore then I may take up smoking again, or a full-time coke habit, or even crystal meth. ;-)  Let's hope that Milk Thistle does its job properly and that never happens.

Cheers!

Testing Times

The shit has started hitting the fan.  I've seen it coming, helplessly, for 8 months.  There has been nothing I can do to prepare for the badly timed next 53 days in which I examine a load of centres, team lead a bunch of examiners, write a whole school-worth of reports, stage the school play and do my research enquiry for the MA.  F-U-C-K-E-D.

I'm a week in and I've already started dropping balls.  The right balls, luckily.  I'm confident that every GCSE candidate I have examined so far has achieved the correct mark, my examiners are performing competently and my boss is happy.  However, ask me to a kids' party in Hatfield last Saturday and I will most definitely take my over-excited-soon-to-be-very-disappointed children to a non-party in Harpenden.  It's fine.  I'm aware it happens to normal mortals; it just normally doesn't happen to me.  It would have been slightly less painful if (a) it hadn't been our next-door neighbour's party so there could be no hiding in shame for a while and (b) I hadn't, (and I kid you not), given my family a lecture in the car on the way to Harpenden about how lucky they were to have a Mummy as well organised as me.  Oops.  Testament to Poor Stu that he only threw that back in my face once when we realised my error.  I would have been on at him about that for days.

On the subject of Poor Stu, he is, so far, coping admirably.  He has realised that 'shut up completely' is probably the safest path to take and is doing stirling work with my neglected boys.  I know I'm a bad wife at the moment; I've said before that it is the first thing to slip and I'm lucky he puts up with it.  I was waxing lyrical as such to another Reception Mum at swimming the other day and she put my mind at rest by saying: "Don't worry, people don't normally rush into divorce, I'm sure you've got a couple of months in hand to sort it out."  Amazing.  At least we're all as cynically-minded as each other!  I had a window tonight between preparing for tomorrow's exam and emptying the dishwasher so I decided to proposition my husband with a shag.

"Do you want sex then?" I growled, ungraciously from the corner of the sofa.  He declined, more graciously, on the grounds of not having digested his dinner quite yet.  This prompted an attack of unjustified malice reminding him of how lucky he was to be offered anything at all and it could quite likely be 2025 before he happened to get his end away again.  Poor Stu.

It's the first time I've drunk any alcohol since Saturday.  That doesn't happen very often.  I hate to admit it but I have definitely been (shock) more efficient and alert this week without being at all hungover.  I'm doing odd things like waking up before my alarm goes off and being able to function before a cup of tea in the morning.  It is definitely the way forward career-wise but it really is quite boring.  I can't quite decide where I want to be: there is the almost-alcoholic Mum that wants a clean house and well-fed kids being pestered by the high-flying career woman.

The boys' birthdays are looming in the next couple of months too.  I wrote out Sebi's invites last night and badgered Stu to give them to his teacher this morning.  The first text reply I got this afternoon however, nearly prompted me to answer: "What on earth are you talking about?"  Luckily, I engaged my Mummy brain before I pressed send.  If you're not giving it teenage-angst on a stage at the moment then you don't seem to enter my stratosphere.

Roll on July.  The kids will have a mother that does more than baby-wipe spilt milk off their school-uniforms before bed.  My parents will have a daughter that speaks to them about something other than child-care.  My friends will have a two-way conversation once more.  My husband will have some semblance of pleasantries and companionship...(no really!) and then I will get bored and the whole ridiculous cycle will start again.

MOTY

We 'popped' to the pub for lunch today.  Always a danger, particularly on a Bank Holiday. Luckily I was driving and giving my body a bit of a break after the bashing of the last few weeks/months/years/ever.

The sun shone and the bouncy castle was up and we all had a lovely time.  I was gently yet smugly telling my kids off every five minutes for getting slightly too near another kid on the bouncy castle, totally in the knowledge that they were being fabulous and it was completely for show to ensure that everyone could see what a good parent I was.

Let's fast-forward five hours then.  Car is dumped.  The sausage and chips that Sebi had for lunch without any veg which was going to be made up with a veg-filled dinner later has been trumped by a pasty out of a paper bag for tea.  Haven't looked at the kids for about an hour whilst there are squeals of delight (or maybe pain) from the bouncy castle.  My parents randomly appear to see their barefooted, ragged-short-wearing grandchildren bounding across a pub garden and mainly I have fallen off the wagon, once-a-bloody-gain and the feral offspring are revelling in the result.

All are now clean and in bed.  Nobody died and scurvy can be warded off with return-to-school-boot-camp-normality tomorrow.

It just makes me laugh at myself.  We went on holiday when Zak was four months old and we were the only family in the complex that were barricaded in our room by 7pm with the baby in bed and us taking it in turns to do a run to the bar and back.  Every time I came back with my round I gave 'poor' Stu a lecture on all the irresponsible parenting I had seen when I was out and about.  As far as I was concerned it was bordering child-abuse having these poor, innocent children up and having a fabulous time running about after their bedtime.  Who did these people think they were?

Last day of the holiday, we got completely twatted and Zak (eventually) fell asleep in his buggy, underneath a very loud speaker, whilst his parents danced the night away till 2am...

The thing I am so proud of about my own personality is that I absolutely and totally stick to my convictions.  That is, until I absolutely and totally don't anymore...

Like a Prayer

I've just fallen off my chocolate lent waggon, ten days early, and eaten an entire box of chocolates.  I don't do things by halves. I've just cleaned my oven for the first time in 18 months as penance but I'm not sure that it a clean oven will be enough to get me through the pearly gates when my time comes...

Zak is reading the Bible at the moment, in its entirety.  It is a Children's Bible but nonetheless I'm impressed by his dedication.  His only view so far is that there isn't enough Jesus in it considering it is meant to be all about him.  I've promised Zak that the second half makes Jesus Christ a Superstar.  He was given this Bible by a local vicar during an assembly at school; all of Year 2 were.  I'm delighted that he is taking it so seriously and taking such an interest, but I do find it odd that a non-faith school comes down so heavily with a Christian philosophy.  I don't mind at all.  In fact, I think it is a very good thing.  I know however of one parent that was really angry about it and I am surprised that the school haven't come across strong views before.

Zak decided to take his Bible to discuss with Granny as she was 'the most proper Christian' in the immediate family.  I think Granny dealt with her interrogation with great fortitude.  Many weaker women would have buckled under Zachary's pointed finger and beady eye questioning the strength of her beliefs.

We were lost momentarily in Brighton this morning and Zak suddenly we suggested that we should pray.  I told him that I would probably be able to sort it out on my own if I just had a moment to look at the map.  Whilst I was looking at the map Zak told me it would be much quicker to ask God directly as he had made Brighton and therefore could just point us in the right direction immediately.  At which point Sebi declared that Zak obviously didn't know what he was talking about as God was most definitely a 'She'.  Amazing.  The theological philosophising stopped dead at that moment, as I had nowhere to go on a feminist deity discussion with four-year old and Zak seemed to lose interest in God the minute he thought God could be more interested in dolls than footballs.

We managed to navigate our way, unaided, through the holy streets of Brighton.  I would like to think that God has a sense of humour and enjoyed the meanderings of the Ward children so much that He/She looks indulgently this evening on their tired mother and her fat stomach full of illegal chocolates.

Amen.