In A Glass Box

Last night Polly, the light of my life, had been invited to perform a couple of pieces at a local arts centre as part of an evening of monologues called A Moment To Mutter. Being a thoroughly supportive husband, and appreciative of the high quality of cake served at this establishment, I agreed to accompany my beloved to the show. And since we hadn't organised a babysitter we gave the boys a late pass and took them with us. We even remembered, at the last minute, to cancel the carers.

The Lantern Arts Centre is located within part of the building that is the monolithic Raynes Park Methodist Church in south London. Over the years it has evolved from an enthusiastically amateur underfunded enterprise into a slickly professional underfunded enterprise. On Friday nights they put on, or invite artists to perform, shows in their Café Studio, a smallish theatre on the 3rd floor. After much fund-raising and lobbying for grants, a few years ago they installed a lift (elevator) which finally made the centre fully accessible to all. The management at the Lantern Arts Centre are committed to inclusivity as is testified to by the huge range of shows and services they put on and provide in and around the local community.

I have ridden the lift to the Café Studio many times in the past, both as a performer and as a member of the audience, I don't have a particular fear of lifts, and this one is essentially a glass box with minimal claustrophobic potential, but even so, my heart rate goes up a little as the surprisingly fragile seeming glass door closes behind me and an electric motor starts to whine. We had sent the boys haring up the flights of stairs that created the stairwell through which the lift rose and Polly and I had entered the lift and closed the glass door behind us. Polly pushed down on the large UP button and held it down and the electric motor engaged. The tone of the electric motor was not that of a contented piece of machinery going about it's business of perpendicularly raising passengers forty or more feet into the air in a safe, reliable manner, but was rather that of a straining put-upon cantankerous piece of groaning mechanical misery. Some eighteen inches into our alarmingly juddery assent Polly removed her hand from the aforementioned UP button and we came to a halt.

People peered over banisters at the new exhibits and I wondered if they were expecting some kind of show. Then it came to me, I could be a mime trapped in a glass box! Polly pushed hopefully at the UP and DOWN buttons but to no avail. Matty and Sam looked down from on high and asked if we were stuck. We assured them it was only for a minute and their angelic little faces turned from mild anxiety to one of sensing an opportunity of freedom, so they headed for the cakes to bat their eyelashes at whoever had the misfortune to be in charge.

Meanwhile the inestimable Georgie Talbot and her husband John, joint artistic directors of the arts centre, leapt into action. John opened a panel high above us and he and colleagues turned some ratchety thing that very slowly lowered us back down to the ground floor.

Various people fiddled with the lift mechanism, trying to reset the wretched thing, but to no avail. Much to Georgie's consternation nothing worked and defeat was admitted. Her fury was heightened by the fact that the centre spends a fortune maintaining the thing and that it had been inspected only days previously. The show, however, had to go on. Fortunately, at that moment, my friend Bob arrived, and within seconds had come up with an action plan. He and I would retire to a local tavern for the duration.

By now the audience was arriving so Bob and I hung around to chat with those we knew, many of whom nodded sagely at the lift and regaled me with stories of the times it had broken down with them in it. Bob, who hates lifts and only ever goes in one with me when we go to the cinema because I can't reach buttons (and even then sort of clings spread to the wall with apparent nonchalance in case the floor drops away) swore he'd never set foot in the thing.

It was also a chance to catch up briefly with Susie, who among her many responsibilities at LAC was tonight manning the box office. Susie, a talented writer, who co-ordinates the centre's children's and youth Theatre Clubs, endures the agonizing condition Lupus, and we have worked together occasionally over the last decade or so, with Susie in particular refusing to compromise because of disability. She had written and was performing two monologues and so, eventually, left Bob and me in charge of the box office while she went to prepare. I later learned that Matty thought her 'growing up' monologue was wonderful.

Once Bob and I had escaped box office duty we made off around the corner for a drink and chat. It occurred to me Polly might want to escape during the interval and get the boys home and to bed so we didn't stay long. As it turned out her second piece was still to come so Bob nipped upstairs to video her performance for me.

Not exactly the evening I was anticipating, but not bad.

Until next time...

Thieves Paradise

Since today is Good Friday I thought I'd share this sketch from the show Burning Questions. I have to admit that this is one of my favourite sketches, not least because, although it always got big laughs, I was once accosted after a show and told I would probably burn in hell for mocking our Lord on the cross and should be ashamed of ever having written it. A little harsh I thought but see what you think.

THIEVES PARADISE

[THE SKETCH TAKES PLACE IN THE BAR OF THE LOCAL PUB. THE TWO
CHARACTERS MAY BE SUPPING FROM BEER GLASSES.]

A:
It near broke my heart to see old Barney hanging there.

B:
Hanging where?

A:
On a big wooden cross.

B:
So why was he doing that?

A:
Well mostly because of the nails.

B:
What, real nails?

A:
Yes.

B:
That's a bit barbaric. You could kill someone like that.

A:
They did. Barney, Jim and that Jesus.

B:
So Barney's dead is he?

A:
Yeah, he was crucified.

B:
Nasty.

A:
He was a good bloke.

B:
Well, he wasn't that good. He was a thief. That's why they crucified him I expect.


A:
Yes, but he was a good thief.

B:
No he wasn't. He got caught.

A:
He never had any luck.

B:
No.

A:
Fancy breaking into a geezer's house when you absolutely posit­ively know he's not going to be there, and then being caught in the act when he comes home totally unexpected.

B:
Yeah. What was that bloke's name again?

A:
Lazarus.

B:
Chance in a million that.

A:
Yeah. Poor old Barney.

B:
Mind you, Jim wasn't much better. I mean, fancy breaking into a house only to find the owner had given everything away.

A:
Blooming Zacchaeus.

B:
And fancy both of them breaking into that gate keepers house...

A:
Only to be spotted by an eyewitness.

A and B:
Blind Bartimaeus.

A:
Still, in their line of work they knew they were taking a risk.

B:
What about that other bloke?

A:
Who, Jesus?

B:
What was his crime?

A:
It was funny that. No one seemed to know.

B:
What was he? A thief? Con man? Fraudster? Mugger?

A:
Rabbi.

B:
What, a holy man?

A:
Apparently. He had a sign on his cross saying he was the king of the Jews. But I heard people saying that he was the Son of God.

B:
If he was the Son of God, what was he doing nailed to a cross?

A:
That's what Jim said. He gave him a really hard time, mocking him and shouting at him to save himself and them.

B:
Jim was a hard man.

A:
As hard as nails.

B:
Not quite... What about Barney?

A:
Barney was a bit different. He seemed to recognise something in Jesus.

B:
It's a pity he didn't meet him earlier. He might not have ended up where he did.

A:
They seemed to get on well enough though, given the circum­stances.

B:
How do you mean

A:
I heard Barney ask if Jesus would remember him when he came into his kingdom.

B:
As if Jesus didn't have enough on his plate.

A:
That's what I thought. But Jesus made him this promise, see?

B:
What kind of promise can you make to a dying man?

A:
He said, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise".

B:
What do you think he meant by that?

A:
That he was for... for... for...

B:
Four sheets to the wind?

A:
No, that he was for... for... for...

B:
For he's a jolly good fellow?

A:
No, that he was for... for... for...

B:
Fortunate?

A:
Hardly. No, that he was forgiven.

B:
Oh.

A:
Yeah, nice thought that.

B:
Any way, I'm going to miss old Barney.


A:
Yeah, but at least his suffering is over.

B:
Was that Jesus the same bloke who's been preaching all over the place?
A:
I suppose so, yeah.

B:
I heard him once.

A:
Oh yeah?

B:
I hope that when he made him that promise he knew what Barney's profession was.

A:
What do you mean? A housebreaker? Well what does that matter now?

B:
Because it was Jesus who said, "In my Father's house are many mansions."

A:
Then Barney really will be in paradise.

© Stephen Deal, 1993

Is There A Clown Doctor In The House?

A few months a go we were watching one of those regional programmes that are usually about cleaning up the local canal or restoring an old theatre or such like. This one was about a group of people who go in to hospitals to visit children and help them come to terms with their conditions, or help explain the procedures they will be going through. They are known as Clown Doctors and use humour, magic and sometimes just plain silliness to to help relax and comfort the children. It turned out these Clown Doctors weren't just a bunch of annoying would be children's entertainers in wigs and red noses but were trained in all manner of things from psychology and infection control to close-up magic and balloon modelling. Personally the idea of someone coming up to my sick bed and asking me to 'pick a card, any card' would make me reach for the pain relief, but I'm not four years old and facing months of chemo.

I turned to remark to Polly something facile about rather having morphine than laughter as my preferred best medicine when I noticed a smile on her face and a far away look in her eyes. “I could do that,” she said. And truth be told I knew she could.

A few weeks later, after an exchange of phone calls and emails, an application form arrived. I say application form but I mean a demand for an autobiography combined with a dissertation on the philosophy of child care. I swear it would be easier for an ex-junkie, militant communist to join MI5 than for a experienced children's entertainer and nursery nurse to become a clown doctor. I know I'm biased but with more than 15 years experience as a story-teller, professional qualifications and real life experience as a nursery nurse both here and abroad, and years of earning a living as a jobbing actor (playing countless parts as cute woodland animals and fairytale creatures) there is no one in the whole country more qualified than Polly for a job like this. She spent hours and hours filling in the form and then dropped in the post.

As you might imagine, following the TV programme, the Clown Doctor people had been swamped with requests for application forms from would be balloon modellers and wig wearing circus wanna-bees. In the end some 375 people actually made it through the form filling and of those a handful were invited to a workshop. Polly was among them. After a morning of finding her inner clown and evolving from the primeval swamp into a dinosaur she was called back for an interview which is where we were up to today.

This morning Polly made her way back to Angel Islington for the interview. There were only six trainee places vacant so I did the “You've done really well to get this far” speech. Later, I received a phone call from her telling me how she had gone mad and been unable to stop talking. “I was surreal even by my standards,” she groaned, “At one stage I was telling them about ready rolled pastry already cut in to circles.” “Why?” I asked. “I don't know,” she wailed. “But after it was over one of the panel asked me where she could get some. Is that a good sign?”

Apparently it was. This afternoon they rang to give her the job though whether for her acting and entertainment skills than for her particular knowledge of frozen patisserie we'll probably never know. Next month she starts a process of training that will last two years. That's an awful lot balloon animals.

What A Performance

Last night, for the first time in quite a while, I took to the stage. Well, more accurately I took to the floor in front of the stage because the stage wasn't accessible. I was doing a turn at the Lantern Arts Centre in South London. It is always nerve racking performing at small art centres because you are never sure if the cast is going to out number the audience. I'd invited some friends to perform a few sketches I have written over the years, so the audience had to number more than seven. I'm glad to report that it did. The show, a mix of sketches and anecdotes, went reassuringly well and I was particularly pleased with the way new material about the laugh-a-minute side of disability went down. After the show several people shared with me their own, or their family's, experiences of carers turning up at half past six to put them to bed or the bewildering and contradictory behaviour of social service departments. It was surprising the level of recognition there was amongst an audience who had not come specifically to see an act based on disability issues.

Working at the budget end of the performing arts arena does have its challenges. Polly was recently performing an extract from her one woman show Woman on a Mission at, let's call it a Ladies Twilight Guild meeting. Her comedy routine was prefixed with an announcement that one of the members had just died and that the soloist for the afternoon would not be coming because her husband had a bladder infection. Polly launched into her routine and despite the hostile glare of one disapproving lady all was going well. But then, as she started a monologue, she watched one of the audience slump forward and rest her head on a table. Not wanting to embarrass her by drawing attention to her Polly carried on. The ladies surrounding the slumped lady began to rearrange chairs and lay her down. Polly continued. Then the chairs were moved again and the lady was lowered on to the floor. Polly glanced across to the chairlady who smiled encouragingly and mouthed, “She's a diabetic. She's always doing this. I don't know why she bothers coming.” Faced with this implacable attitude Polly, with increasing concern for the lady who had now thoroughly upstaged her, reluctantly launched into a song while all the time more and more people fussed over the now unconscious woman. Polly glanced desperately at the chairlady who indicated she should carry on. He who pays the piper etc. Polly ploughed on. . . right up to the moment when the ambulance crew burst in. As she ground to a halt she turned pleadingly to the chairlady and said that she felt it was best to stop at this point. The chairlady stood and turned to Polly and said primly, “Yes, I think that would be best. Don't you?”

A Fine Romance

I received an email from fellow blogger Laura, author of Yet Another Never Updated Blog (YANUB), who appears to be an incurable romantic. She wrote -

Stephen, I sense a romantic tale to be told in how you courted Polly. Please indulge my curiosity. Did you see her across the way and wheel on over? Meet her at the pub while you were with some other girl? Steal her from your (former) best friend? Or did she take one look at you and decide that your bachelor days were numbered, whether or not you knew it?

Laura

In 1991 I was writing for and touring with Stripes Theatre Co, a small company that toured churches, schools, youth events and conferences all over the country. I'm sure that at some point in the future I will write about my time with Stripes and the highs and lows of travelling around the motorway network of the UK but for now we'll stick to romance. Every now and then we would spend a few days on a theatre skills course to stimulate new ideas. In February of 1991 we had booked our selves in for an Improvisation course at the Desmond Jones School of Physical Theatre and Mime in Hammersmith. London.

One of the actors, Karen, was a qualified teacher and would sometimes act as a supply teacher at a local primary school between gigs, tours and rehearsals. We would often pick her up after school on a Friday and drive for several hours, set up, perform, find our digs, run workshops and perform on Saturday and Sunday, pack up and then drive several hours back home, usually arriving at 3 or 4am. Karen would then crawl into school and teach for the week until Friday when the whole process started again. At the time of the Desmond Jones improv course she was supply teaching in a school nursery and was being greatly helped by the resident nursery nurse, Polly. Polly would run the nursery while Karen tried not to doze in the corner. They became good friends as Karen appreciated the support Polly gave her and Polly appreciated the way Karen didn't. interfere with the way she wanted to run the nursery. At the time Polly was contemplating a career change and was coincidently intending to spend a few months training the Desmond Jones school. When Karen learned this she invited Polly to attend the Improvisation course with us. Polly was delighted and said yes. It was a fateful decision.

Now Polly and my version of events differ here. But since I'm writing this, this is the True account of what happened. It was a chilly February morning but with a song in my heart I drove my electric wheelchair out into the car park at the rear of my block of flats where the large white van the company owned was parked waiting for me. My colleagues, Karen and Caroline, were waiting to load the chair into the van when a small, bobbed haired girl jumped down out of the vehicle and said “Hello”, in a smiley, enthusiastic way. I admit I was slightly surprised to find an additional person in the company but being a warm and fuzzy person I greeted her warmly.

(At this point it should be said, Polly has a slightly different memory of our first encounter. She, wrongly, believes that I was rude to her. She maintains that I said “Do I know you?” in an abrupt manner, as if demanding that she justify her presence immediately. Of course, anyone who knows me will tell you that abruptness, especially first thing in the morning when I haven't had time to finish my first cup of coffee, is completely out of character and that it is much more likely that my natural sunny disposition shone through. Polly maintains that at that point on she decided that wheelchair or not she was not going to be intimidated by me. I thought she was sweet.)

We arrived at the hall where the course was held and joined in the fun. We ran through a series of increasingly more bizarre and complex exercises that required fast thinking and a sense of humour. We often had to work in pairs and you soon worked out who was good at this kind of thing and who should be avoided at all costs. When you have to find as many ways to use a traffic cone as possible you do not want to be stuck with the person who runs out of ideas after saying, “Er... you could use it to stop cars parking.” I found myself pairing up with Polly more and more frequently. The girl could rattle off two dozen uses for a traffic cone as soon as look at you.

At this point I should mention I was in a hired wheelchair while I waited for an insurance claim to be settled. My previous chair had been smashed in an accident some months earlier. This hire chair was a flimsy affair with bits of square tubular metal holding things together. During a particularly physical exercise Polly bumped into me and the wheelchair controller snapped off. I spent the rest of the course with the controller on my lap, operating the chair like a remote controlled car. Polly noticed that the controller had snapped off and asked what happened, I didn't have the heart to tell her it was her who broke it. I was afraid she would be so embarrassed she wouldn't want to face me again. I was beginning to really like her.

Next time: How Anneka Rice nearly ruined things for me and how a cake saved the day.