It’s at this time I wonder why on earth I do this. Rehearsals are lots of fun but then the realisation hits me: the public are going to be paying good money to see a show, so they don’t want a shambles. That knowledge just adds to the stomach-churning, the imagined sore throat, stress rash and general inability to converse with the family or feed them anything as my appetite wanes.
So I have to focus. I need to listen to the music and practise the harmonies. A bit of a wiggle in front of the bedroom mirror so I can see what I actually look like when I’m gyrating like a floosy (I take my specs off, the blurred look is so much more attractive).
I haven’t had my script the last few days. Searched the house and couldn’t find it anywhere. Panic set in. I know my lines (usually) but I need the script as a crutch, to keep with me, refer to, calm my frazzled nerves. Thankfully someone has found it at our rehearsal room so I can pick it up tomorrow. Until then I feel quite lost.
I’m also responsible for the publicity for the production. As if I’ve not got enough to stress me out, I’m still waiting for the printers to ring me to say the programmes are ready. We had some great publicity in the local paper yesterday and my photo was in but my legs had been cut off. Bloody cheek – they’re my best assets! Instead just a grinning fool with blonde wig and gaudy sunglasses staring out from the group.