Well, as I rather expected, we are now in the deepest gloom. Exactly three weeks away from first night, we’re up to our ears in that kind of litigious mooligrubs – as well as frighteningly behind schedule.
Oh, don’t mistake me: it’s all as it should be, in that it always, but always happens. Still…
The music isn’t settled yet, and our leading man is all frampold*, and we’ve just added a scrap of 1 Henry VI, and I can’t find the sort of mask we want, so I’ll have to make it myself, and we’ll have neither a projector nor a spotlight, and there will be two unexperienced electricians alone at the lighting board, and I had a row with Gemma over whether I’m a Greek Chorus or not – and I know she’s the Omnipotent Director, but I’m the Omniscient Author, damn it!
Add that the Squirrels can’t seem to get used to Gemma and myself having rows, and that the heat and humidity are ferocious, and blocking is a nightmare, because we found out we’ll have to dance around three huge potted bushes that can’t be moved for any earthly reason. Three damned bushes in the damned middle of the damned stage-area… Plus, while the place is quite lovely, it’s full of Chinhook-sized, man-eating mosquitoes with a taste for actors’ blood…
In a way, it’s as it ought to be. In a way, it would be a tad alarming if everything were going smooth at this stage… I remember idyllic rehearsals when we watched each other in some dismay: when was IT going to happen? Still, knowing it’s part of the game, and having gone through it countless times, doesn’t make it any more pleasant. I’m passably confident that SiW will find its collective legs in time – but for the moment, you can picture me fretting like mad and quite frampold.
* Isn’t it a wonderful word? “Peevish and unquiet”, says the Historical Thesaurus… I have adopted it for everyday use.