Fringe
On my birthday, last Wednesday
I was ill.
I have been ill for a long time now
and this disturbs me.
I am not afraid of having an illness that
will kill me. No; the thought that scares me
is the thought of being in pain,
being sick. I hate pain
and I hate sickness. Sickness stops me
from doing things I want to.
On Tuesday night my play began
at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. It went
as well as we'd hoped.
That night
we left the theatre and moved on
to karaoke, where I, in my fragile, terrified and
geriatric-fearing state sang
"Help The Aged"
badly, with Andrew.
I could not drink much - I was so ill.
At midnight
Keith called me up
onto the stage and then called up all my friends
who stood around me and sang "Happy Birthday"
which, although I knew
would happen,
was still an emotional moment. Ross carried me around the pub.
I got back and Polly had
bought me a present in a gold-wrapped
box. Inside was cake, jelly, balloons and other finery.
We blew up the balloons and
drew on them.
I received lots of
birthday kisses. Before I left,
some men I did not know called
me over to the bar and bought me lots
of tequila.
Finally, I was getting drunk. We left.
I was very upset as my
Karmic Sister and my
Psychic Twin Brother were
intertwined and ignoring me.
I went to bed, and woke up, fine. We went
to eat at 50's diner hell:
Monster Mash
which I usually dislike, but today the food
was lovely, and the waitresses were
still as fun and quirky as ever
although this time, I believe they
had not been
sampling Class A delights.
I was so sick and hungry. So hungry
I ordered a large Shepherd's Pie
and so sick
I could not eat it.
I went home.
Sometimes people are driven to great things
by pain. I am not.
My sickness did not make me a wilting rose like
Emily Bronte with her fevers. It does not force me to become
prolific like
Anthony Burgess or wise in the knowledge that my
art is stronger than death, like Angela Carter.
My sickness made me stay inside and wonder if
perhaps the reason behind it all was
pregnancy?
I tried to dispel this thought, but it nagged
and nagged. I made some calls to some people, like
my old comrades from the Riego Street days
and the boy on the Chopper but not many were coming to see my play, or
out to my second night of birthday
festivities.
I heard nothing from the boy until ten
minutes before I took to the stage. When I heard from him, he said:
He was sorry to have not got in contact with me,
his reason for this being that his head was in
a mess. He was depressed. He likes me
a lot but still feels for this terrifying woman I met in May. As people
do, he reassured me that this was not my fault
it was just him, and apologised for being that way. He told me that
now I could add him to my list - this
list I have of men who have mistreated me. But then
he said
It's Just The Wrong Time
whatever that may mean. And that he had no intention of lying to me:
I should forget him as
he cannot be around for me.
Actors channel pain into performance and
when I left the stage on Wednesday night
I was in tears, not only because of this news
but because I had discovered that I am no actress:
my performance had suffered because of my lack of feeling for
the character, and
as a result,
everyone else's performances had suffered. That night
we were up for an award in The Scotsman
but did not get anywhere with it.
We went to The Last Drop
which had, by the end of the week,
become our local. We stayed a while and
met with some men who run a shop in the wintery and bleak land
of my birth. Tomas made me drink
a blue concoction.
It was awful. I drank hard and fast that night, to keep the Edinburgh chills out
of my bones.
We went to Nichol Edwards and watched some
comedy. I lent my wig to the compére. I heckled and joked, and the
atmosphere was lovely. An Australian
man sat on my knee.
The next day, the play picked up - our best
performance to date, as we were
all furious at our director. This time
we did channel real anger into
performance. This one was bettered only by Saturday's.
However, on Thursday we did not sell a single ticket, and
some theatre workers came to see
the play
out of sympathy.
On Saturday night my mother and my beautiful sister
visited and saw the play. By
their reports, they enjoyed it immensely. And
apparently we had a celebrity in the front row.
On Monday night we were graced with the presence
of Eddie Izzard.