A LAMP-ROOM IS A LONESOME THING,GOD WOT! (apologies to T.E.Brown 1830-1897.)

Our theatre can usually be described as intimate and friendly, however, when operational the Lamp/Sound Room is really very isolated. Unless a mistake is made everyone forgets you are there,and, when mistakes are made there is no hiding place. Whether it is sitting alone in the dark,or the presence of all the little winking lights, mostly red and green, that gives rise to esoteric thoughts, I could not say. But sitting there on my high stool, raised up on the pallets, philosophical thoughts come unbidden. Perched up on that stool, it could,of course, just be altitude sickness.

Last night was a case in point. I had not turned on the mike, for a midget like me it requires standing on said high stool to reach the switch, located above the door and I simply could not be asked. When one of the blokes switches it on they just stand on the end of the pallets and clutch the door-frame. Talk about life in the fast lane! Also, when making the switch on previous occasions, I have either fallen off the stool when the door moved, or banged my head on the metal arm at the top of the door. All was well until the heavens opened and the monsoon started.With the racket on the roof, I realised that it was like looking into a fish tank, through my window all I could see were the three blokes opening and closing their mouths like goldfish. I sat, fascinated, until I became aware that I had not a clue where we were on the script and quickly did my mountaineering act. Interesting though.

Watching this silent movie got me thinking about the talk of Seneca in the script and his 'De Vita Beata'. I've never read it but I suspect that this classic would not have me rolling in the aisles with uncontrolled laughter.Who are these men in the script? Seeing as it is 'Le quatorze juillet' I will accept that, for today, they are French. But are we really looking at the classic Roman triumvirate(number 2)? If so, if Yvan is Lepidus, who is Octavian and who is Mark Antony? Don't rush to respond, it's just the lamp-room effect.

A CROWDED STREET

It was with only a passing interest that I listened to the results from the European Elections yesterday. However it did get me thinking about neighbours, Europe is a road that just teems with people, if you fall out with the people next door, in our case, France or Ireland, there are still plenty of neighbours to talk to. We have been falling out with the French for years, in fact between Agincourt and Waterloo we have met them in every round (and,dare I say it, won) and all were away fixtures. It is hardly any wonder that, whilst in France, the locals have not been sure whether to accuse me of being English or German.('Boche' being mouthed with a Gallic sneer.) The old enemy or the new, usually they have settled for 'Dutch'. I have always got my own back, however, the total refusal to understand English has meant that I have been obliged to use my appalling French. My massacre of the language should be punishable by law, the wincing at even my best efforts has been a joy to behold. My grammar is passable, it's the brummy accent that it's delivered in that seems to set their teeth on edge.

It was, therefore, with some surprise when I had two conversations with a couple of Antipodeans to hear their opinion of each other. Back in January I was chatting to daughter number three's new boyfriend, a Kiwi, who professed that he didn't mind people having problems with his accent as long as he was not accused of being an Aussie. My son called him 'Frodo', but that's another story. Then, last Saturday whilst doing some research in MacDonalds in Cardiff, I spoke to a young Australian bloke who claimed that he would have been insulted if I had even suspected him of being from New Zealand.

I find this quite incredible, if they are not speaking to each other, who do they speak to? The penguins? My geography is poor, but as I see it, this particular 'street' has only two houses. If they want to slag each other off who do they gossip to? The aboriginal people in both countries would, no doubt, declare, 'A plague on both of your houses'. Answers on the blog, dears.

Rosie, the Director, talks to Mike about his role in 'ART'. The rain is still drumming on the roof . . .

Clowning Around

Lloyd and Fennie (Peter) are discussing the rehearsal. The rain is drumming on the roof . . .

The Rehearsal - Part 1

At the Market Theatre. Rosie and Fennie are waiting for the rest of the cast of ART. The rain is drumming on the roof . .

THE LADY AND THE GONG

The perennial discussion over the years at Committee meetings has been how we can effectively publicise our productions. It is a well-known fact that the places to hang posters have reduced and any piece sent to the press does not automatically appear in the relevant week's paper. It has occurred to me that perhaps we are missing a trick here. Some years ago I saw a sight which certainly impressed me, although not strictly advertising it gained my full attention and that of the other 21000 in the audience that night.

I had taken my seat (metal) and was looking at the set in front of me. No curtains, the set would be changed in front of my eyes, but then where do you hang a curtain in the open air? Lucie had vanished to obtain two more glasses of the stuff that refreshes and inebriates from the bars doing sterling service in the bowels of the amphitheatre. I was enjoying looking at the walls of Mantova and the river, Mincio, unashamedly Italian. I had commented on the fact to my daughter before she left for the bar. 'You can even see Rigletto's house there', she had said. 'But it's French', I said, 'Le Roi S'Amuse, Victor Hugo.' But I digress.

Suddenly from stage right a large lady , who would have done justice as Brunhilde in 'Die Valkure' strode on and stood in pole position in the middle of the stage. She was dressed in an understated outfit of feathers and carried a large gong that would have done good service at the start of of one of those old J. Arthur Rank movies. She circumnavigated the gong with her mallet, hit it once and promptly walked off, waving her mallet at her friends and relations on the stone seats above. Luce returned shortly after with two glasses of prosecco. When I enquired about the vision of loveliness and especially what she had come as , I was told that she was the equivalent of the bell and would make two more appearances before the kick-off. Everything happened as had been foretold. I was fascinated feeling that I had had my money's worth before the off. On subsequent visits I have waited for the gong-ladies' arrival, considering while I did so on what would be the preferred dress code for the evening.

Perhaps we should invest in a gong and have a willing volunteer outside the Town Hall every day of a production.I'm not sexist, it would not have to be one of the girls, we could make it one of the blokes in a loin-cloth like the guy in the movies. Now there's a thought to conjure with!

'Be it ever so 'umble'. 'Outside Edge' A Postscript.

One of the best things about having our own theatre is that the set grows around the cast during rehearsal. In the ‘town-hall days’, rehearsals would have taken place in our building, then, the weekend before play week, the whole caboodle would move into the Town Hall. The set would rise in 24 hours and a rehearsal would take place on Sunday evening with the cast being advised to avoid contact with the walls because the paint was wet. Practical doors, mimed until this point, needed to be opened, telephones answered and the right furniture sat on, leaned against or walked around. It is hardly any wonder that most Sunday night rehearsals were a disaster. The actors, bless them, were totally disorientated.

Our rundown cricket pavilion was just what the script demanded. Sitting in the lighting box, it was great to watch the cast at home on the set. I marvelled at the ease that they displayed in the tiny space we had given them to work in. No claustrophobia here then.

However on the final Wednesday of rehearsal I stood at the back, chewing on the safety rail, something was wrong and I could not see what it was. Next day during my afternoon perambulation with the dog, I saw the light, my own personal Damascus at the traffic lights. We only had one garden bench! How could I have been so blind! A rather sad bench in need of some TLC had arrived from a garden in Eastgate. It was perfect, so a coat of paint would have to wait until after production. What we needed was a second. I had seen ‘our’ bench’s twin in a front garden in St Athan Road, but it was immaculate, it would have given ours an inferiority complex.

Decisions were made during that walk, ‘What’, I asked myself, ‘ is an actor’s greatest strength?’ ‘The ability to scrounge’ came the reply. Walking back home I glanced into all the gardens to see if there was anything suitable. Just I was ready to give up I saw my neighbour tidying his garage. Yes they had a bench, but it had stood outside for years, he had mended his bike on it and it desperately needed attention. It had been third hand when they got it. Music to my ears, by the time my neighbour’s wife returned from Exeter (it was her bench anyway) the poor old thing was gracing our stage, (bench not neighbour’s wife).

The cast was thrilled, they were using it on set within 24 hours. I kept my anxieties to myself, the bench had been very wet, would any of them develop mould on their backsides? I’ll have to ask them.