The Tin-Man, who always has a heart

The table is approached by the waiter and the remains, or lack of, from our course is removed. I look over to my dining companion and find myself falling into the eyes I've been lost in before. So many times, yet each time a more over whelming feeling. Each more intense than the previous and just as exciting and new.

The candle light shining onto his skin, me noticing once more the curve of his brow, the depth of his smile. The rush of that first kiss outside my old theatre. The memory of the way he smelled as we waited, long after closing for our taxis. The feeling of longing to prolong our separation when they had arrived. The anticipation in his voice as he called me back and the warmth of his breath, out there in the cold, as we kissed for the first time.

The way we wake in each others arms. The way he smiles in his sleep, like a young innocent boy without a care in the world. The way he looks at me secretly when in public, and scrunches up his nose to signal that all is ok. The way I'm willing to devote my life in every way possible. To be by his side, through hardships and triumph. To love, hold, listen and learn from. To be ever faithful and share my world with, like no person before and nobody after. There will never be an after.

My life is this man. This man is my life.

When all the world is a hopeless jumble... WALK!!

I shut my locker door and walk. I walk so quickly without looking back or acknowledging any persons in sight. I run down the stairs, sign out and leave. Breathe.

Director Boy looks at me with a smile, I feel bad as I return a scowl and announce that "we are walking". Each night when I leave work and he is waiting for me, we go to the nearest bus stop, unless something has happened in which case I vent my frustration and anger out on my feet and we walk, across London to Selfridges passing my 'feel good' shops.

This was one of those nights.

I explain to Director Boy that evenings events, and he declares we walk.

We talk and discuss the options. In the end we decide that walking was the best option. Is always the best option, as new shoes and cashmere always diffuse the situation.

When we finally get on the bus we both produce copies of 'Harry Potter' and agree that Green and Black's chocolate and Eggs Benedict are the order of the day.

'To be, or not to be? That is the question.'

When faced with the prospect of being in a West End show do you jump or do you wait to be pushed??

This morning I awoke from a dream I could only hope to forget, only to find it was on the path to reality. When I finally got out of bed, trying to prolong the forthcoming audition, nerves start fly to areas of my body I forgot existed. I grunted through morning conversation with Director Boy hoping to disguise the fact I was actually fully alert and coherent and completely petrified.

I haven't felt this nervous since the day I came out, realising the trust in what was placed in my mother was now public knowledge. I stand up and walk into the bathroom, clutching my stomach only to empty the contents quicker than should be humanly possible. Director Boy leaves for work with words of encouragement, and I sit there with only the thought that I was going to make a fool of myself in front him later in the day. After everything he's done to get me the aution the last thing I wanted to do was be unveiled as a theatrical fraud.

Time passes very slowly as I try and psyche myself up for the moment. Re-reading the scene I know is coming up and running imaginary conversations in my head, over and over. But all I can think about is how much my stomach still hurts, All in all I end up throwing up three times, each more painful than the last.

The moment finally comes and I approach stage door. A text arrives from Director Boy with yet more words, but I can barely read them, I need to concentrate on whats to come.

The audition itself was over in a matter of minutes. I read better than I thought I would but equally I felt relieved. My stomach felt settled and I felt great. I left the theatre after my first West End casting feeling proud of myself for just getting through it and not feeling like the world had collapsed.

Needless to say I didn't get the part, but I did get excellent feed back. There's no more I could ask for. Director Boy was proud of me and although I will never admit it, that was the only thing I wanted to achieve. When someone loves you as much as much as he does, there is nothing in the world I would do to disappoint or embarrass.

Hand's That Do Dishes

When the home is dirty, and not in the bedroom, its time to clean! Hands and knees are sore, and not from the bedroom, from scrubbing the floor. The polish comes out, furniture is moved, the hoover makes an appearance, The kitchen sink is filled with hot soapy loveliness that rejuvinates your hands better than any beauty cream ever could. It also wrinkles them so I'm not really revelling in that image. Also, I'm not really washing up, Director Boy is. Also, I'm not really hoovering, it is out but its crap so I literally am on my hands and knees like some Victorian scullery maid, complete with knittting and baking skills...

Once again my friends, I am going insane!!

The only thing that seems to bring me back to earth is re-arranging Vogue into alphabetical order and catagorise my some 300+ DVD's into sections, sub-sections and then having the insanity to alphbetise them. Pearl would be proud.

Can't wait to see her, my stylish and beautiful best friend. She arrives in a week and to be completely truthful I'm finding it both wierd and hard without her near. The international 'Get Pearl a job agency' is working around the clock to bring her to London. Hopefully all will be in order and the Home Office will allow the Visa application.

The Life of The W.A.G.

Just when you think you can visit a theatre as a normal human being, I.E. no press, stars, dressing room run's or bloody stairs. And after the success of 'Avenue Q.' I honestly thought the delightful visit to 'The Drowsy Chaperone' was going to be another of those nights.

I was wrong.

The show was indeed delightful. Very funny and cute. Those words, I might add, do not apply to the "star", and I use the term loosely. Very very loosely. Funny songs, good choreography, great sets and costumes. What more could you want, than Director Boy announcing he knows two people in the cast and were going backstage.

We didn't just go backstage, we gate crashed the leaving party. Filled with champagne, cocktails and Elaine Paige!

Jesus... Pass me the Musket!

Shakespeare Sunday??

What a way to spend sunday: wake at noon to a delicious breakfast made by Director Boy. The new edition of Vogue to peruse. We made a Gingerbread house, and at 4:00pm treated to some open air Shakespeare in the rookery on Streatham Common.

I am ashamed to say we left at the interval. The second show this year I have walked out of. My defense to the first is that I was drunk. My defense to the second, that I still have both sanity and integrity. I am appalled to say that it was the worse production I have seen this year!! So bad that I am prepared to retract my previous opinions, and announce to the world that 'Beauty and the Beast' was amazing* and that Northern Broadsides are the best Shakespeare company that could ever tread the boards**.

I have no more to say on the subject.

Only that to emphasise how bad it was, it was Director Boy who decided we should leave.



* It was not.
** It most certainly isn't!

Lists, Lists, Lists

I look over to the bedside table, open the sleek draw to find my diary sitting under a copy of 'I Capture the Castle'. "Aha" I exclaim, gleefully lifting the heavy flock cover to reveal a scrawled list of theatre events. Here it is, my list of live theatre that I've seen in 2007 so far.

Reading down the list I realise that after the 7th April there are no more entries for theatre, and even then, the other entries are Director Boy's movements on tour.

So I search deep into the draw that seems bottomless, as I find more items that haven't seen daylight in a couple of months.

Making mental notes on missing theatre trips I start to BlogLog* them in chronological order. Reminiscing over each one as I carefully type in the date, production and place. From Opera to Ballet, Shakespeare to Eric Idle, they all speak to me with such beautiful language. Quotes and scenes flood back to my memory like a dam wall bursting with the rapids only having one direction home.

I type, remember, and cling to savouring feelings that each production left me with. Whether good or bad, nothing can compare to live theatre. Not even Vogue!




* To 'BlogLog', lists specifically on a blog page. I.E. Theatre, Other Blogs, Events, E.T.C...

Eyes on the Prize

Today, I am pleased to say, I am feeling much better. Inanimate objects are no longer seeming so friendly, in fact I think I've done full circle and almost become 'straight man'. I.E. wouldn't dare to even think about cleaning, or putting down a toilet seat.

Well, at least I'm slightly full circle, more semi- circle. Basically, I couldn't tear myself away from running to sainsbury's with the task of doing a full weeks shopping on a budget of £40. Best thing was there was an added bonus, A PRIZE!! If I came in under budget I got a gift. And guess who should be female and came in under budget?? C'est moi!!

I then came home and made lunch for myself and Director boy, who was working from home today. Then I slept while he went swimming. I'm currently making dinner, home made shepherd's pie.

Such a supportive house wife.... Oh dear... I don't think any circles were drawn and no manly thoughts ever entered my head.

But, still, I came under budget. What straight guy knows such pleasures?

Now, I wonder what my prize is??

The First of Many... Oh Dear...

West End Press Nights will mostly include:

1, Saying 'Hello' to thousands of people you've never met.
2, Being stuck in a 'Sleeping Sandwich', Director Boy dropping off on one side and a Critic on the other!
3, Being introuduced to the real Julia Flyte*
4, Spotting other members of 'Brideshead Revisited'**
5, Having a certain Doctor*** doing his best Ralph Fiennes impression****
6, Reaching altitudes that could give Ben Nevis a run for its money*****
7, Then being boiled to death by insessant heat
8, Feeling your famous by leaving out of a secret exit with Lauren Bacall, and being snaped by the paps!!
9, And finally, saying 'Hello' to thousand's more people that you didn't say hello to the first time round. Also some you did.


* Sorry Coza, the wig was brillaint but...
** A certain Jeremy Irons.
*** Well it wasn't Simon Shepherd so WHO???
**** A.K.A. Pulling your baseball cap over your eyes so as not to draw attention to yourself. The converse gave him away.
***** A.K.A. The impossible stairs on the dressing room run. These stairs just keep on going. The average age of the cast is around 60 and I was having difficulty! Where was Dame Thora when you need her?

The Morning After The Night Before The Rest Of My Life...

The new orientation of the bed gives me an uneasy nights sleep, not to mention the alcohol content from the leaving cocktails, which certainly were leaving their mark. I check the time, 7:26, “O.K.” I think to myself, “time to get up, it’s time to go”.
Today is the day I leave for London. Again. Last time was somewhat eventful. This time will be equally as eventful but this time I’m setting up home with my fiancée.

The morning flies by with boxes and bags stacked high, too high, then being re-stacked in an attempt not to kill myself before I’ve even left. Then boxes and bags being carried downstairs and dropped with such aplomb that a suitcase full of vogue* would be proud of. Needless to say that the suitcase itself is an event, ergo backing up my theory that this time round would be eventful. After moving my worldly possessions from what was my bedroom to what was my living room, I need a bath, and drugs. Lots of drugs.

Before Man-with-a-van turns up, I rush out to buy cat supplies for her new living arrangements. By ‘supplies’ I mean Evian as this is one snobby cat. And by ‘new living arrangements’ I mean with Director Boy and me.

I return home from Angry Fence’s** to find HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED, sorry J.K., glaring at me with eye’s only he can give. With a face as red as skin rash and veins the size of hose pipe’s popping out of most surface area’s, HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED bellows like Brian Blessed in panto and stamps his foot. All I want to give him is E5 cream to calm the redness. And I, as usual when this fiend appears, am the cause of every possible problem on the planet, from him losing his keys, cracks in ceilings, cracks in tiles- behind sinks that are boxed in so are naturally my fault, to the starving in Africa!*** Today I am determined not to be stressed out, also the drugs are kicking in and I’m somewhat sedate, so I laugh at him to piss him off further. Just as I hear the thermometer burst, Man-with-a-van turns up.

This might be a good point to mention that all the advice given by mother’s and police everywhere has gone out of the window, as a man I’ve never met is about to transport me in a white Transit van on a journey that inevitably takes 6 hours. I can hear the NSPCC gathering their petitions and pickets.

Tea is made, HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED leaves, the van is loaded and off we go!!

Conversation is surprisingly relaxed and easy in the front of the van-with-a-man, mostly revolving around theatre and singing two part harmonies accapella from the ‘Wicked” soundtrack.

Six hours later we arrive in the capital to be alerted that security levels have risen.

Now who told the Home Office about my arrival??





*The suitcase in question is a very large silver, plastic one, that contains only two years supply of vogue, and ironically all my clothes are in black bags.

**A.K.A. Cross Gates Shopping Centre.

***Not really, although it would be if he actually cared about real issues

As Time Goes By...

Once again it's happening and I cant control a bloody thing! Yes, I'm another year older.
Anyone who knows me will know I like to have just a little bit of control over events, and this year was certainly NOT going to be an exception! My birthday this year was/is spanning over three days. Friday, Saturday (my actual birthday) and then sunday. Friday was oddly fantastic. We, as in me and Director Boy, woke late morning and had yogurt and fruit with a nice cup-o-tea*, Twinnings to be precise. Or pedantic, which ever you choose. Then headed out to Oxford street to spend, spend, spend!! Oxford Street was good as I got to shop and spend lots of someone else's money as I changed him (Director Boy) to how I want him. This would be a good point to mention I decorated and 'de-cluttered' his room the previous afternoon.
After a few hours of shaking my head anytime he picked up something hideous, I started to panic as this was also the evening I was meeting the parents. Not just meeting them, but having a 3 course meal with them. Father: who's a writer and happened to be the writer of one of my favourite children's programme's of my youth, 'Grotbags'. And Mother: who has 5 BAFTA's lined up on the mantle piece. This was enough to send me into a frenzy! Walking through Pimlico I was the epitome of elegance after Oxford St. however, on the inside I felt like I was heading for the guillotine. I was in way over my head. I can fake elegance and can fake knowledge, but this time I was certainly going to be caught out. A house where within holds Writer's, Producer's for the beeb**, Director boy's and Dean, sitting on antique furniture, eating from silver older than my gran, and all while these dreadfully off putting BAFTA's look on with their one normal eye and one lame eye.
We were greeted at the door by a very lovely looking woman, mid-forties*** dressed all in black with brilliant hair. Fiery Red, we found out later it was provided by Clairol as they ceased to make her old-faithful. Welcomed into the house, met the writer, Late fifties, definitely an English gent. Said hello, shook hands, so far so good. All is going well. And then Director Boy points it out- a birthday cake made by mum...

SORRY FOLKS, WILL HAVE TO FINISH IT ANOTHER TIME!








* Implements Yorkshire accent
** BBC, it's an insider thing :-)
*** Turns out she late fifties

Loves Laydee's Lost

The flowers start to bloom, the birds begin to show themselves and sing much louder than before. Singing songs of joy, rebirth, love. The sun seems to shine brighter. Winter is on its way out. Long gone are the days of tinsel and reindeer socks, and then we hear it. See it. In our faces wherever we look. The words that start rational people on the road to neuroses, 'Valentines Day'.

On the whole people seem and react in a normal manner, but deep inside its utter terror. From the panic of which card to send, of not recieving a card, what present to get, whether to get a present, how many presents to get?? It's mania. I'm laughing at the thought but I remember the terror of not recieving a valentines card, and worse the terror of recieving one I hated! And I'm in a serious relationship, just look at the psychotic annalysis, imagine what its like for singletons everywhere that are already on the verge of a breakdown?!

So, this year I went on a mission.

I was spending the evening not with my Director, but with 2 fantastic, single, girlfriends of mine. The girls were getting together to watch 'The Brit's' music awards and invited me. "Starts at 8pm sharp". "O.K. I'm at work at Flora* all day but finish at 5 so I'll go home and come straight to yours, say 7.30?".
The next day before work I decided with what little cash graced my wallet, as its never any decent amount at the moment, to buy my fantastic laydee's a little thankyou gift for the evening**. I called into a shop that suited my budget and bought a big bag of sweets, ye olde fashioned kind that we had as children, and a bag of chocolate coins. I knew these would go down a treat and be would be appreciated. I was set. But as I headed for the curse of not driving A.K.A. public transport, I passed a bakery, and in the window proudly displayed was 2 heart shapped cookies with red icing. I love my friends dearly and spent the last £1 I had at my disposal for the rest of the week on the gifts of edible love.
Later that day the two laydee's in question payed me a visit to Flora and whilest I had them at my command, in my territory, and on a piece of furniture that i'd managed to make them fall head over heals with, now only to apply this to the actual customers, I presented them with the hearts. The look I recieved was priceless, beyond gratitude. Beyond caring. For that split second I was the only man alive. The only straight man alive.

Bollocks to cards, bollocks to the worry of several gifts. One gift from a person who genuinely cares, who isn't in search for displays of affection on a day thats dictated, one gift that makes you feel like the only person in the world is how everyone should feel. Regardless of status. Someone somewhere will always love you. And the scary but most beautiful thing is that generally, its always someone who''ll surprise you. And more often than not, it's generally your friends.

Partners come and go, but friends are for life.

NOTE: To my darling Director Boy, I feel that this is all still valid as our Valentines Day was the 17th and that I love you beyond the horror of the day and into eternity.
* 'Flora' A.K.A. Laura Ashley
** I'm a gentleman and believe in not turning upto a house empty handed, whatever your budget