December again…

Had things been different – had things been normal – I’d be going through the backstage routine for the umpteenth time with the newest recruit of the Quick Change Team (whoever she or he might be), getting ready for tonight’s dress rehearsals of a Christmas Carol, discussing our Scrooge’s foibles – and perhaps trying on my own costume for Ruth Grimshaw in the prologue… All the while, also getting ready for our new big play – my own Verne adaptation, to open on New Year’s Eve.  Also, Gemma and the good old Squirrels would be doing my Christmas Triptych on the 17th – so, even without being directly and officially involved in the production, more preparations…

Had things gone better than they have, I’d be in the middle of the second week of The Sound of Wings & The Shepherd – my own Covid-safe one-act plays: an original and an adaptation, with as few people onstage as possible, spare scenery, no backstage crew to speak of. We’d be doing it for a half empty house – but still, we’d be doing it.

Had things gone even the tiniest bit better than they have, we’d be back to the Tiny Theatre tomorrow, with the prospect of opening in two weeks, and therefore working like mad to make up for the months of Zoom rehearsals. And I’d be in serious trouble about the 17th, too: miss dress rehearsal at the Tiny Theatre, or miss the Squirrel’s one-off night? Oh dear…

Things being the way they are… Ah well. Things being the way they are, all theatres are closed, and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future. We are all stuck at home, without the foggiest idea of when we can open again, and have our first night… This will be my first December without theatre in… oh, in so long that I don’t even quite know. No rehearsals, no debuts, no breathless waiting in the wings, no last-minute backstage checks, no after-show dinners or Sunday teas with the cast, no shuttling between two towns 40 kilometers apart and their respective theatres, no applause…

Oh, it’s all just postponed, we tell each other – and we keep rehearsing in view of that. Next summer. Next December. Next time. Meanwhile, though, let me heave a big, rather sad sigh: this is going to be a very strange December indeed.